Below is a vignette I have composed; I hope it isn't too controversial.
When you are standing all magisterial in your luxurious shower, golden-tapped, slick as a monkey’s incipient vagina, with just about the dirtiest **** on your mind, all you can think is that: guilt is a bar of soap.
The soap is green; your sins are red.
You stretch a little, blink a dozen times, and smile yellow teeth beauty, and at that moment you think you’ve lifted the burden. But Allah almighty, that is something you ain’t gonna do, it’s like that bomb that you planted is strapped to the bottom of your stomach. Dense and ticking like a mother****er.
You shake your head. You want to deny everything. You are a bastard. You think you are seeing clearly now. This is better; this is the straight and narrow. You just better not get recognized for your cowardice; hopefully the good people will accept you, even if you tried to blow the **** out of them.
Shake your head. Shave your head. Wash all over. Repeat.
You rub the soap against your skin. Green. The soap cost forty-four pound sterling. The soap was a present your uncle. He got it from Bagdad. It was manufactured in a factory by starving children.
You’ve got your cash. You’ve done your deed. You’ve got a million pounds sterling. You paid for the shower with this. You paid for the tasteless mansion with this. You paid for the sex with this. You shower.
You have a lot of money and a lot of sin. You thought you knew which would come out the winner in the end. You’re not so sure now. You scrub the soap against your greasy skin.
The soap is green; your sins are red.
The cool blue water drips off your nakedness.
You did what you did. You regret it like a mother****er, you wish you could go back and ... well be honest you wouldn’t change what you did. You were a hollow mother****er. You might as well have been made out of glass. You had no drive. No motivation. You wanted nothing more than your material goods your luxurious shower, golden tapped, slick as a monkey’s incipient vagina, dude, that’s what you used to dream about, in the gardens with Amir. And guess the **** what, you’ve got that, you’ve got everything you want and more, you are a tasteless bastard. You’ve got your material ****, what more? Can’t you just be happy? So what if you killed some rich ****s, they had it coming, they’re rich.
Your heart beats. Slow. You feel like that Glassman in you, that one, waiting to break out, guess what — maybe the explosion was too loud. The glass has broken. Every time you move, glass flitters around. Fragments, piercing that slow bomb of a soft red heart.
You need some cheering up. Perhaps, when you’ve showered, you can head off to London, right into the city, buy some good ****. If that doesn’t cheer you up, nothing will.
You sniff, the glass, is in your nose. And you can smell nothing but the sweet scent of abortion. Puce.
You’ve washed nicely now. You turn the heat up. Red hot. Wonderful. Splendid.
You know when you place your two index fingers so that they’re touching, right in front of your eyes, and then move them back and forward, and then you get the illusion that there’s a slab a flesh in between. Your eyes kinda take a weird stance. Well you get that, staring through the Perspex of the shower.
You are trapped. Water rushes. This is oblivion. This is hell. And you are just waiting for a moist Satan to give you a kiss. For crows to rip out your smiling heart. This is it, this is the moment that you give up living, this is the moment when the sin, when the guilt epitomises. Where you look through the Perspex, and see nothing but green and red.
There is no redemption, for you.
There is no God, for you.
I’m afraid, you’re gonna have to suck the red hot **** of karma. Good luck.
Still looking through the glass. You own so much now. So much you don’t need. Your flatscreen fifty-six inch plasma blu-ray television. Your two Ferraris. Electric Green. Scarlet Red. You can see them now. Stream-lined. Low. Gliding through African plains. Purposeless. A village full of malaria and aids and poverty. Rushing past.
You can be the butcher who became the vegetarian. Red. Green. Together, they make blue. You turn the shower down. Cooler. Better. You wanna hug all the blue-eyed Africans, you wanna give away your million pounds. You wanna give away your two Ferraris. You wanna give away your flatscreen fifty-six inch plasma blu-ray television. You wanna forget your guilt, it was done, you had no purpose before, you got a purpose, it was a bad purpose, but good at the time. Now you need a new purpose. A purpose good for now, and good forever.
You dreamed about meeting Allah in paradise. You wondered whether you would bow or say your prayers first, you were ready to hug Allah. To be welcomed.
You lost belief. Or maybe you just screwed up. Nevertheless, you didn’t die. Everyone else did. You took the burden. The world wants your head, maybe you could try and be good, or maybe you’ll give them it on a silver platter, alongside a nice green bar of soap.


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