Clean Sweep

Sometimes

I like to pretend

that the lack of eye contact

– that is typical on the tube –

is caused by my powerful Mafioso connections;

legendary rage, brutality

and all seeing eyes.

Ah meester Contellini, please do not kill me.

Ah meester Capaci, please don’t attack me.

I nod, with my coal eyes,

scissor slits on a lined paper face:

You have been pardoned oh weak ones,

but do not cross this God before you again.

Sometimes

I like to pretend

that this screaming shuttle

– that splutters and scrapes –

is really a spaceship

darting around a tubular galaxy

devoid of stars.

It is the home of carnivirous creatures

hungry for human flesh.

They want in this ship.

They scream and scrape beneath,

clawing to creep inside

and devour us limb by limb.

Sometimes

I like to pretend

that when I get off this train

and walk to my workplace

that

– instead of picking up a broom –

I pick up a gun

and I blow these scum bags

on the streets to smithereens.

The whores,

the scoring and the pimping.

The dealing and the killing.

The world needs a hero.

It’s time to clean up the streets,

I’d say.

Time to clean up the streets.

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