DREAM - MAFIA WAREHOUSE

its the same warehouse i used to work in
dirty 1990s 
forever spliffs
nightwork 
and
team scotch no1

but

now
its
run
by
the MOB

deliveries come in / my job to check them
ok - can do . . .
its another urgent
shipment
of
hitmen kits

black leather gloves
check
bodybags
check
plastic bags for shell casings
check
9 mm suppressors 
check
eyebrow wax
check
shovels and picks 
check
9mm pistols serial numbers removed
no . . .


two fat guys in sand coloured suits 
march in with questions
and
out the office comes Big Pussy Bonpensiero
pointing a pistol 
at
ME

he pumps the trigger / he swears

not my fault the load is short . . .

i duck round the fat suits
and
out onto the loading bay
but
cos
its
a
dream
i
am
wading thru super thick dream treacle
and
when
i
fall
i
cant
get
up
and
struggle along like a dreadful drunk

thru the door
and outside
i get behind the stinking bins cold metal sides
my 
legs 
shaking

(like Harrison Fords Deckard 
in that rain 
on that rooftop)


bullets
ping
off
the metal / gouge cement between my boots

i grab a fire extinguisher off the wall

Big Pussy's joined by more foot soldiers
all
waving nines 
all
in pastel tracksuits
bling
flickers
in
the sodium light

i fire off white foam fuzz
coat their faces
and
their
tracksuit
chevrons

Steve McQueen turns up stage left and i coat him too

turn
him
into
a
snowman

i am struggling backwards on my arse all the time
down the kerb / over drain covers

i back into a forgotten box

the missing pistols !
packed in bubble wrap
and
oily factory cloth


i
grab
two fast - the dream treacle thins
and
i
load
them
and
pump bullets 
into
the
stumbling foam covered mass

(not Steve tho
Steves
long
gone)

from
life.
time.
com

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