And because we have lived enough,
lost enough,
seen enough,
and because were are still young,
we can give up.

We drink in protest.
We drink in resignation.
Spirit after spirit,
we drink the bar under the table.
Double after double,
knowing every song from the first bar,
we object to the ceaseless march of time
with our phenomenal whisky courage.

Pathetic.

Three years ago now,
Ibrahim sits with me beneath the mango tree.
He tells me how he raped, mutilated, murdered. He tells me how he ate human flesh.
The school child. The shy boy. The monster.

Oh God.

And now,
in London,
far from Ibrahim.
We drink in protest.
We drink in resignation.
Spirit after spirit,
for our great hardships.
The delay on the underground.
The women who do not conform to our expectations.
The men who do not conform to our expectations.
The unreliable postal service.
The rainy weather.

Do not make light of this.I hear that, always, in my mind.
Do not make light of this.

I am breathing,
I am free.
Today I have not murdered anyone.
For these things
I am most grateful.


Tomorrow I want to fuck Alysia.
I am a monster, in my own way.