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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.

Categories: Poetry & Lyric, Terry Collett

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