HUSH HUSH HITS

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A CIA KILLER'S MEMORIES.

Submitted: August 13, 2010

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Submitted: August 13, 2010

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\"\"Governments lie,
They always have,
Bill says, standing

Outside an old
Bookshop (nothing
There worth the price),

Yet still the whole
Darn electoral
Process goes on

Like a loony
Tune lunatic’s
Circus and still

Producing the
Same jackasses
Each time, the same

Two faced clowns. Bill
Scans the street out
Of habit, taps

The gun inside
His dark jacket,
Clutches tight the

Walking stick to
Keep him steady.
He remembers

Now and then the
Hits, the heads, brains
And faces blown

Wide bits to bits;
The black ops; the
Big hush hush; the

Government fucks
Kept in the dark;
The Agency

Running the show,
Keeping the line,
Spying, watching,

Tapping phones, and
He losing all
Sense of shock or

Conscience’s bite.
He recalls the
Rent boys, the fucks

In seedy rooms
In large shitty
Cities, the girl

He drowned in her
Hot bath in West
Berlin way back

In 68
A spy and a
Plant and a sad

Fuck. He’s semi
Retired now,
Wanders the streets,

Watching, spying,
Keeping tabs and
Imagining

In his mind each
Passing person
A possible

Hit, studying
Their way of walk,
The way they hold

Their hands or head,
Imagining
Them like all those

Before in his
Past, the walking
Dying and dead.


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