I could kill him, okay –
worth considering, if it
weren’t for the martyrdom complex,
and that 4 days without washing smell
his legal rep could weave into the prosecution’s case –
he lost his way,
he was seeking gainful employment again when the boot went in.
It gives me chills, good ones of course,
thinking of fist meeting bone
like dawn kisses day,
and his blood becomes a rose-petal sunrise
behind a dope-scent studio flat,
with standard Stairway to Heaven
and Bob Marley posters (of course) – now more sanguine in tone.
And it’s funny how it all kicked off,
me, floating away on dental morphine,
he schmoozing my erstwhile love
with some weed and his grubby computer hacker’s hands,
the gargle of booze and cancer behind his nervous laugh –
one man ironically stoned…
The other I wished
stoned by rocks
this city sucked its heavy grey soul from,
his death – esoteric on the outskirts,
where feral tribes roamed, and pizza-boys dreaded
weekend nights, the roll of beer tins, and trains that jumped them
from behind, venom-spat freight runs to towns – almost as pale
as his vampire veins.
And what of my prison diary?
Tuesday 4th
“I’ve committed my first murder,
his eyes were glazed, his motions sifted clouds implicated by the stink of dope,
his messianic sandals, reeking in lack of faith, the brownish gasp like the fumes
and drained colours, my hands were appointed to cleanse”
And when he hits the ground
his belly will burst, and hostages will scarper past, hoping, then knowing, they’re free for good now – ghosts who’ll thank me for saving them.
Perhaps we’ll go for coffee in some shithole where he shot pool, maybe I’ll decline, survivor’s guilt perhaps, more likely the knowledge of better love to come.
But what was it Zimmy said about standing near graves?
I’ll be a hawk, wrenched on that tree,
making sure worms keep their contract too.
Yeah, what it all could have been, over someone who never was.
In Between Hangovers 