In a slum where only the dust swirls,
rain never falls.
The air is thick with humidity
It claws at your skin till it glistens with a sheen
The contours of your taught body jutting out like a grooved ravine
That thick, slow, stale moving air
an oppressive weight that seeks to suffocate, strangle,
desiccate your body with excess
Cold, hard metal, cool inside
Is it out of revenge? Pride? Fear of the other side?
A sharp burst
that over time, dulls in the vicinities of your working mind
as you assimilate with the daily crime
the average grind of simply getting by.
Was it because of rape, the constant haranguing that infuriates?
An addiction that we cannot feed
taking control, spreading like weed
till we find ourselves vassals
with a petrol bomb held loosely in those
But let’s not hypothesise, let’s not try and humanise
after all, from the vantage point where we stand
this is God’s City, His Promise Land
The only problem with this post-lapsarian man
Is that where Jehovah Stands
All else is obliterated
In his blood-soaked magnificence
we dwindle into insignificance
So we take the gun, take the stash
and make this Kingdom into a bloodbath.
I refuse to be
I need a name up in lights
So for that split second
as the dust settles, and cracked soled feet slap
that barren land
I think, I am, the God of this- this-