No Trace of The Track
The tannoy rattles spit
And a Godfather rings my ears,
Here I stand facing his venomous crew,
The countdown to my worst fears.
They’ve missed not a thing.
They carve and bludgeon.
My fingers melted on a gas-ring,
My body, now their dungeon.
A tremolo wind flies through,
Whistling as if in a race
With the Grand, Grand Central.
I am knifed by a menacing face.
I lie injected like
A Sicilian infirmary.
Feeling warm– wet, severed
And bleeding internally
Grinding halt, comes the coroner,
Blue lights appear, white and chrome red.
I want to shout, they’re the bad guys, not me
It’s a pity, because I’m fucking dead.
The Don said “They come to me
I don’t go to them.
It’s the way it’s meant to be,
I say where and I say when”
Never wished for Cosa Nostra shame,
My unknowing missus, washes spaghetti off the dishes.
Time to get my head down
And sleep with the fishes.
(2014)
