Skint Amateur Hitmen
05/04/2010, Tuesday, 2:40pm
Washed-out jeans and tattered jackets
contrasting the overcast skies,
clouds wrapped around blue like a packet
of cigarettes, of gum, of crisps,
stuffed into starving mouths
with dirty hands.
We get paid buttons for dirty work.
A backstreet job with many faults,
sirens be the soundtrack of course,
stabbing the head with fear and guilt,
pain piercing fertile hearts,
like a dart to a bulls eye
on a board in a rundown pub.
Bodies looking for protection
in the wrong direction,
making connections with higher people
on lower thrones.
I’m the one with the gun in my pocket,
but you pulled the trigger,
sending one fleeting bullet
cutting through the alley air
to kill the man who dared
to stare with the wrong kind of eyes
at our so called boss: the tyrant in a trilby.
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