I sleep with Putin in my head.
I dream that I fly a missile over the Kremlin and drop it on top of his head.
I dream I take a pot shot and shoot him in the forehead.
I dream I only maim him so he doesn’t become a martyr.
I have nightmares of living without water, light, food or shelter, then in my waking dreams I walk into the Kremlin and get ever so close to Vlad the mad, bad, sad fucker and shove my face as close as I can into his beady eyes and ask
‘Just what the fuck do you think you are doing?’
I make him stand and walk to the car waiting for us outside his temporary lodgings.
I make him sit in the back as we drive slowly the eleven and a half hours to Kyiv.
I make him look at the destruction he has reeked.
I make him look into the faces of dispossessed people walking.
I open one window and make him feel the cold, bitter air.
I make him take his suit jacket off.
I open all the windows and make him suffer the bitter cold.
When we arrive at a convoy of Russian soldiers
I make him get out of the car.
I make him walk past his young fighters.
I make him look into the eyes of the frightened and terrified twenty year olds who are fighting his dirty war.
I make him walk with the soldiers, I make him watch as they shoot their rifles.
I make him stand with his hands on his head as gunfire surrounds him.
I make him take his trousers, shirt and vest off and place them neatly on the ground next to a dead soldier.
Wearing only his shoes, socks and underpants I bundle him back into the car.
Wearing just his airtex underpants I watch him shiver as I drive the warmonger towards Kyiv.
I make him remove his shoes and walk over the rubble of his madness.
I make him stand in the middle of a bombed out hospital and I demand he scratches through the bricks and broken beds.
I make him tear his finger nails as he digs for mercy.
I make him stand in the freezing cold, an hour for every day he has waged war.
After at least 17 hours in the snow and ice I make him stand barefoot in blood stained burnt out care homes.
I make him stand and wait till the sun comes up, when she throws her light onto his deadly debris, I tell him that the sun illuminates the whole world and that he has a chance for her to illuminate his heart too.
I make him walk barefoot behind the car as we drive slowly with an 85 year old woman who is standing holding her life in a basket.
I make him walk close to her to remind him he’s not bombing an idea he is bombing people.
People with children
People with cats and dogs
People with dreams and fears.
I make him look into the eyes of the Babushkas and tell them what he is fighting for.
I make him walk barefoot and cold to a room full of abandoned children
I make him sit on a small chair and ask the children to tell him what life is like without parents, a home, a bowl of soup, a mug of hot chocolate, a future.
I pull him back into the car and we drive a long way without water, warmth, food and I ask him,
‘Just what the fuck do you think you are doing?’
I make him reflect on whether he wants to die.
I make him ponder on whether he cares about living.
I make him close his eyes and relive what he has just seen.
I remind him that he did to Afghanistan what he is doing to the Ukrainians.
‘Just what the fuck have you achieved. We speak the same language’ I say, ‘I understand yours, the language of separation. Do you understand mine the language of compassion?’
I laugh out loud at his cruel madness.
I make him get out when we get to Poland.
I make him stand, in his underpants and socks while a chain of women and children turn their backs on him.
I make him watch as the children laugh at a man in socks and Y-Fronts.
At Calais I push Priti Patel into his face and have them discuss the morality of their actions.
I have Volodymyr Zelenskyy brought to him, and demand that Vlad the mad, bad, sad fucker removes his socks and underpants that the naked narcissist will stand before Zelenskyy and beg for forgiveness.
The Russian despot will be forced to hear that Zelenskyy lost three of his uncles in a concentration camp, that Zelenskyy is the grandson of one surviving Jew, and that giving up comedy was worth it just to see one weak megalomaniac shiver in the ruins of an outdated ideology.
I make Putin, voluntarily, bow to the refugees and apologise.
I make Putin, voluntarily bow to the Ukreinian President.
Martin Luther king had a dream and opened the hearts of millions.
Vladimir Putin had a dream that opened the doors of destruction and chaos.
I cannot be the only one who wishes Putin dead.
I cannot be the only one who feels helpless as we watch city after city fall.
I cannot be the only one who wishes those men of power removed.
I cannot be the only one that reels under the knowledge that this is all about money.
That the cost of living is costing us more than life itself.
That the cost of living should be about just that – LIVING
No cowering in the corner as the men of power play silly fuckers with our lives.
In my dream Volodymyr Zelenskyy says
‘Jeni, there is no need for all this. A dreams a dream get back to the business of living and prepare for peace.’
And I say
‘Ok Volo. Done.’