Conqueror's Pleasure Poem by alexander opicho

Hello,
Sheikh Omar
You and thy vile team
Have won the battles of terror wars,
By lynch and siege, marauding, macabre
Massacre, killing, pillaging, looting, vandalism,
Shooting, mayheming, wounding, decimation,
Chopping, bombing, poisoning, arsenal, blitzkrieg,
Ambushing, trapping, netting, impaling, harpooning,
Harrowing, hanging, snoozing, guilontine, euthanasia,
Suffocating, starving, virus, x-ray, electrocuting, sinking,
Capsizing, burying, confining, gas-chambering, beating, thwacking,
Whacking, sjambok, hand-cuffing, cutting, piercing, voodoo, cursing,
Annihilation, bludgeoning, enslaving, imprisoning, tear-gassing, probing…,
By all means of terror you have won, you are the conqueror of the world,
Subjugating son of man, fauna and flora on land and sea and in the realm
Beyond the power of the human eye in its native stature, but where is your
Genuine happiness? Pleasure? Glory? Triumph? Joy? Power? And even majesty?
Are you not a common caitiff, cad, waif, saddo, lout, oat, dufer, jade, wag and dunce?
Wallowing in oppressive loneliness, wretchedness, mire, scum, sludge, trash and garbage,
For you killed all that would have seen you reigning, ruling, trending, and commanding,
They would have praised and worshipped you in veneration by lauding you the king,
The queen, the emperor, the master, the knight, the squire, the earl, the sultan, the chief,
Archduke, the prince, the plenipotentiary, the panjandrum, the potentate, mayor, the governor,
His highness, your holiness, your excellence, your majesty, your honour, your
Mighty, the sheikh, Maalim, Muezzin, the Imam the statesman of Islam as you reign the dream,
Certainly prevails my conscience that conquerors in wars and battle don't have pleasure,
No happiness, nor bliss, nor dignity, nor zest, nor esteem, nor ego abodes their way,
But fear, suspicion, doubt, spying, hatred, dissembling, cunningness, boredom
And stress, and ennui, despair and hopelessness, wariness and snipping,
And arming and re-arming, weapon and super-mega-weapons,
And fatigue, and dryness and ugliness and paleness,
And crudeness, piousness, and paganism,
And star-gazing, and palmistry
And exorcism are your
Sleeping partner,
In your
Bed.



















7) Show me the Poetry City

Hello, Africa on the eastern space
Bravely eyeballing the Sun to eyeball
With the mighty Sun in its daily cradle,
Hanging your fjord as foots in the waters,
Of the lovely Indian Ocean in bluish halo,
Show me the cities of your art and poetry,
As Florence was to Rome and is to Europe,
Where is your Athens replete with sepulchers,
Of the literary ancestors as the past (s) heroines?

Mombasa looks strong for soft art, romantic poetry,
Fort Jesus brandishing its guns against sea waves,
Lest those in rampage marauds away the city,
But oblivious to the climate purge sinking the islet,
Slowly, slowly and slowly into the waters,

Nairobi roars loudly with the love for money,
Elites toss about the headless un-gentry,
Into clefts of ethnicity and political fits,
Virginity from which buds corrupt space,
Where writers and poets wallow in the mire,
Of poverty and want the sire of the diarchy;
Ego masters and patrimonial bourgeoisies,
Kampala is cunningly in fuss for Monarchy,
Kings and princes repute there more than all,
The throne of Kintu, sits on the raucous silence,
Of song of lawino, Song of Ocol, and Malaya's chant,
As artist is the ruled with his teeth out for whiteness' sake,
In sweet witness of the backyard station of art and poetry,

Kigali's wee of the night is at mid of the day,
No poet there chants nor writes on objective pages,
All are buried beneath fear of freedom and liberty
Lest culture space twinkly harbors on hate speech,
In eerie of Kigali, Dar Salaam and Bujumbura,
Blending into dam's outlet exiting through Nile,
Into the Juba city where soldiers and sharp-shooters,
Tower the city above all souls living and dead,
Condemning my song for the afro-city of art,
A dirge for menace of the open road……