|Posted on May 25, 2011 at 5:44 AM|
Kentril has a job to do, has a man
To kill. He sits and selects a cigarette.
Takes his time. The French cigarette
He thinks best at this time. This his
Favourite. He lights, draws in the smoke.
The photograph of the victim he holds
Between yellowed finger and thumb.
The person’s laughing, some party scene.
Kentril rubs his thumb over the celluloid
Face, can’t wipe off the grin, or the bright
Eyes, dim. Nothing personal, a job to be
Done, a wipe off, a rub out, one less to
Breathe or eat or drink or fuck or shit,
Just eternal dumb sleep. He remembers
Some dame he had to eradicate. Young,
Pretty, dark haired, big round olive eyes.
Drowned her in her bath as she bathed.
Struggled to survive, splashing soap water,
Arms, legs, gurgled screams, then stillness,
Silence. There’s an art to killing in the end,
He muses, drawing in deeply the smoke.
He puts the photograph with the guy with
The laugh to one side. The record player
Pushes out some Thelonius Monk, hears
The piano’s discordant notes, bass, drums.
A print of Warhol’s Marilyn on the wall.
His mother’s picture in his wallet, stuffed
Betwixt shoe bill and laminated licence to kill.