The omnibenevolent is up there I promise.
Somewhere, where, his role is the absent father,
the cheap dad carved out of metal
his giant lattice holding his love children of consumerism their
DNA helix structures of court cases and suitcases, back packs, hand bags, plastic bags, a hand.
A hand holding a bible, a hand picking popcorn from his holy
beard as he watches the hopeless homeless wait
outside his churches, their grumbles not loud enough to rumble even an ounce of empathy, because in purgatory between Bethnal and Hackney there is but one person willing to pick you up from shattered glass and trust me that
will not be him.
You are merely a statistic, nothing more than a thumping mind waking up on the wrong side of your government.
You’re an infant in the forgotten war.
The taxes you pay and the injustices you riot in will be nothing more than a burnt tent in Calais when the omnipotent is balancing evil from good because the world would have no aim if everything was good.
That’s what we say in ethics. But what do we say in Aleppo?
Is He watching oil pile up on history
repeating tributaries of genocide and homicide
education weaved and sewn numbly through bullying and suicide
freshly printed revision guides burnt by
pristine self hatred
along with the constant reminder that school is reputation over education, it is Ofsted inspected privilege foreshadowing your inevitable hollow future because between these 1000 girls and misunderstood teachers
is going to remember your name unless you make them feel something other than endless calculations, endless motion.
Only within numbers on whiteboards do we see issues but what I want to know is are WE going to be numbers again?
Are we going to be three digits in striped pyjamas praying behind electric wires, tongue biting behind barracks, watching our children’s shoes pile up and while we are praying the omniscient is watching the innocent malnourish, their nails curl into their skin and their skin crackle into despair.
The only thing putting a gap between then and now are pixels through a screen.
It’s nice to be able to see these things when there is a piece of glass and a screen protector distancing you from the reality.
Put your prayer mat on the rubble children sleep on spot picking conspiracists, domestic terrorists, stop your blood boiling, your face flushing because the end times are near and our father is ready to take us away from this council house and fight for us in court while mum is crying.
God did not make time.
Time is man made and placed perfectly to put us in order in which we are a slave to each year passing by.
This isn’t the end.
Remember that when you’re counting the spare change in your pocket.
Count to your mind
because it’s all in there.
Ana is 14. She’s a slam poet living somewhere in Greater London.