By the rivers of Babylon he sat and wept
By the rivers of Babylon he sat and wept,
He packed his bags, combed his hair, shined his shoes,
He shielded his eyes from the blinding of the coming light,
Said his goodbyes, scratched ‘Tom, Dick & Harry was here’ on the walls, within which he had become recluse,
He wrote his famous last words, saying that he couldn’t live in a world that wasn’t his own,
Planted his feet in the virgin sand, and walked,
Through Babylon, through Sodom, through Gomorrah, through London
Where he walked until his bloodied footprints were cemented into the thoughts of those whose thoughts had yet to be unlocked,
And he cried so they all would hear:
‘Breathe the air that is my home, feel the words that I live in,
The vowels wrapped in consonants, the metaphors that grow into reality,
if you allow it,
If it’s not too much to ask, die; and be born again elbow deep in your own abnormality,
But be sure that you are under no illusion,
Be sure that you know that you and I are not the same,
While we all cry unanswered prayers, my fingertips cry muted tears as they paint the only self-portrait they know,
My heart dances to the music of Chaucerian iambic pentameter, seeking shelter in its fame.’
And as no-one seemed to hear, he continued to walk,
Bellowing his blasphemous words, labelled filthy,
Feeding off of decrepit cigarette butts,
In the shadow of all that was significant in the eyes of the worthy,
Thinking of his first love: angel-headed hipsters and Mohammedan angels,
The love that grew into a sickness that burnt into the shits of the night time, which burned
‘Neath his bloodshot eyes, where tears fell for his family and friends,
Who, a long time ago, lost a little boy who never returned,
The man, now broken, hid in the wake of the sun’s onanistic promises,
Seeing, with deluded, closing eyes, his own face, amidst mind-born clouds,
Dragging himself past the stations of London, questioning the validity of his dreams,
All the while, he remained unimportant to the ever-apathetic crowds,
Until, again he cried, so they all would hear:
‘Understand! Understand what I am saying,
I am addressing you, undressing you, so that you might feel how I do,
Understand that I just want God to love me,
That if you deeply, truly want to see my point of view,
You must submit and become subservient to the arts,
You must drink ink and shit gold, take a shot for us all and don the blindfold,
If truly’, he said, ‘You want to believe,
You must live – live the words untold,
The bollocks, the if onlys, the I probably shouldn’ts
And as he sat on the steps of the circus, where he had found himself, with requited love in the naked sky,
Surrounded by faces tattooed on paper, one last time he rose, and said, so they all would hear,
For in his mind, at least, the silence didn’t belie:
‘Silence, where the radicals are born,
I meet you all in silence,
I greet you all in silence,
Silence, where we die,
Where I tear the veil, so that you may see my face,
Where I may confess to you, from the sincerities of my soul,
That I am a poet,
I stand here, not as a demagogue, or to preach stories told,
But to tell you that I am a poet,
The sun may lose its fight, and the moon may grow negro and insipid,
But for as long as hearts beat and life inspires, I will remain a poet.’
And from the bow of the whole-hearted cupid,
Having said all that needed to be said,
The man tied a noose, to rest his weary head.
Olugboyega ‘Bo’ Abayomi – Odubanjo is a 17-year old boy, currently studying his A-Levels at a sixth form college in Kent. He lives in Dagenham and hopes to study English at university on his way to becoming a university professor of English.