Newsflash: Wem Grandfather Awarded the Shropshire – Kamchatka Contract
When they visited a third time
I agreed to join. It makes sense.
The Solntsevskaya Bratva –
my new family: fount of my food,
derivation of my drink,
author of my authority,
template of my tattoos.
So good of them to think of me –
to seek out my mini-mart town,
my bungalowed anonymity –
to knock at my polyvinyl chloride door.
Now I am on their payroll
I might be able to afford a bell.
Not that there haven’t been others:
the Tambovskaya Bratva tapped,
the Yamaguchi Gumi yahooed,
the Camorra came calling,
the ‘Ndrangheta ‘nosed around.
The Sinaloa Cartel sang so sweetly
my faceless head nearly turned
towards mariachi murder mayhem
in the adobe dope kiln nihilism
of Sierra Madre tequila cantinas.
But no, if I am to fill my belly
with Durex dildos of crystal meth,
if I am to help hang tortured corpses
from art brut ring-road parapets,
if I am to stand for hours oozing uzis
guarding palace swimming pools –
then it has to be the Russians.
You are just what we are looking for,
old and not even in the way –
grey of hair, yes, but who cares
if you shave your head anyway?
Nothing for a victim to grab on to.
What airport airhead will ever
question your gaunting civilian face
or search your Tesco cabin-fit case?
We are your pimped-up pension,
your home-car-life insurance in one:
we will pay full travel expenses –
with your bus pass, senior railcard,
you can make extra on the side.
Hidden from the world in plain sight:
this is my negotiating ace-in-the-soul!
It wins me what I want –
the Shropshire / Kamchatka contract.
Here in the Petropavlosk Ritz-Carlton
I gaze into the pure silvered mirror,
I run my hands over my razored scalp
even though it remains beyond my sight.
Needle memories still tingle my shoulders,
inked so carefully with denim-blue stars,
but I cannot see my blotching body.
Invisibility! My friend, my bane no longer –
invisibility, my only lover…here I am, here…
Ted Eames, 2022