The road to the capital was one hundred kilometres
of corpses, each hand-made
with machete and grenade. We passed the flaming wells,
the oil-quenched birds
and the abandoned horses of the royal palace running
mad amid the smoke
and burning trees. Toolmaker par excellence,
nothing makes sense
to me like a catastrophe. Need I say no corpse
will ever make a human? Yes,
the kingdom is now mine, but don’t call me
lord — I am the Beast,
I dislike compliments. What pleases me is
vigorous resistance.
It does not come from the domesticated ones
who gladly bear
my presence that I may forget
my ugliness
and so my sights are trained
on bigger game
14the creatures that exceed me
in ferocity.
Herdsman of the last great
migration, I
am the one who can’t afford to give
or take the slightest pity.
I help them out
of their skins and into history.