I take the place of the broken body washed up on some beach off Trinidad. No worries. No tourist
from north America or Europe-and-other places would have their holiday spoiled, momentarily,
because of my inappropriate state in their promised paradise. It is not carnival, and besides, the best
beaches are in Tobago or Grenada. But I give you my broken body.
I will not, even if I could, deny my status as a trafficker in women or drugs. If I was rotten to the
core, so be it. As it rots offensively alongside painted fishing boats with quirky names like Who
Cares or I Could Not Give Two Wuk Ups, my soul-case is so clearly unlike yours.
It is fitting you should do me so. It equalizes us, somehow. See, I cannot so much as beg your mercy
now. And hey, you cannot give it.
We are not so much unalike. Your children are happy, and so, too, probably, are mine. Now. Nobody
gives a shit anyhow about a rotting body, blown to smaller and larger evil bits by your most
effective armory, mah brother. Pity we personally could not have done a deal—you sell the guns, we
buy you “poison”, as your bossman calls it.
But what more to say? Buzzards drop in occasionally. My face is tasty, I hear. Have no fear.
Paradise will not be interrupted this year, and maybe I will not be let near anyway. (Just asking: Do
you think He heard the drone’s whistle as a small small prayer? I meant it for my count....)
Jah Guide,
My broken, blown and pecked