A psychiatrist, a poet and a war criminal
walk into a bar — what do they have in common?
They’re all the same man but he hasn’t been convicted yet,
that’s a few years off. This morning he’s waiting
for the boss of a huge agri business,
a chicken tycoon who doubles as a politician.
Dicky did well under the Soviets.
He turned his corner of the Balkans
into little Switzerland, more colour TVs
than anywhere else in Tito’s republic.
After the dust settled on the Berlin Wall,
he expected to do just as well under the new regime,
but the emerging elite — ultra-nationalists, top-heavy muslims —
were not to his liking, nor did they like him — a dubious convert,
a shaky muslim like Constantine seeing the cross on the Milvian bridge.
He joined forces with Ali Izetbegović but the boys fell out.
Ali was different. Ali was old-school,
a good show for the mullahs (at least on paper) —
there can be no co-existence between Islamic
and non-Islamic institutions.
So Dicky retired to a castle on a hill,
still loved by the local poultrymen,
he carved out his own little fiefdom,
The Serbs gave him money
for the devilment of driving a stake
through the heart of the Krajina.
On the other side, Ali went fishing in the Middle East.
Osama bin Laden got a journalist’s visa
from the Bosnian embassy in Vienna.
In a cyber-café, a fighter
with the Militant Islamic Liberation Front
clicks on the wrong Wikipedia link —
at least he learns the meaning
of the word “disambiguation”.
The KLA, al Qaeda, the MILF.
Kaleidoscope of images.
Poppy fields, narco-jihad money.
The mullahs pray in brand new temples,
patriarchs bless mortars and shells,
with god anything is possible, even theological warfare.
Dicky downs another shot.
The Americans called him a straight talking man
but he got twenty years for war crimes, served ten.
Ali got nothing. Omar got five —
he started the war fighting his neighbours,
before he changed sides and went on the hunt for Serbs,
that didn’t work so he switched sides again.
Omni-directional violence.
Inter-communal knives.
Gangsters before anything else.
Only later did they enter
the soap and fat-making business
of you know what.
Laurence O’Dwyer | The Blue Fume
Contents | Mudlark No. 75 (2023)