I paint a boat on the sea, to wage a war.

Carrion circles the vultures.

Picks at their bones.

Leaves nothing but the beak, and the worm. A trail of grey blood.

I mix salt in the water and drink it

I paint the rocks of parrots.

The rocks fall short of a scuttle but form a banal prayer.

‘You did not speak of genocide?’ they prayed

We were chosen when the angel of death passed over our doors.

You didn’t warn your neighbours? You left their doors unpainted?

No I didn’t speak of genocide.

I sat in the dark with the lights out, refusing to move until they stopped selling panadol with a spoon.

Don’t make me keep up with the pace of these things in last year’s shoes.

Don’t show me a picture then tell me what to see.

I never condemned wonder women like you did, so I did not have to pretend to praise her all along.

I baulk at blood sports. I refuse to jump the bar.

Yet my boat is not a nihilist. It’s an olive branch that got dropped before it reached the dove.

It’s an inside out lock.

It’s grey smoke rising from the bones.

It’s counting the dead children with an ammeter.

With no connection at all.