villain

when i was a kid i didn't dream of being james bond
or the rock star drowning in girls and good times

i wanted to be blofeld with his fat white cat
poisoned stiletto in my shoe
and a desk studded with buttons opening chutes to hell
beneath my minion's chairs

i didn't dream of doing manly deeds
like healthy boys do
dawdling in comic books
where costumed men
fight maniacs in colourful spandex

i read my mother's true crime books
about britain's most horrifying crooks

the handsome devils unsatisfied by ordinary sex
the wicked witches clubbing their hubbies to death
('twas open season on lovers)

watched movies like bonnie and clyde
getting all gay on faye dunaway
the fashionista psychopath
beret and knitted blouse
walking in the bank gun poised
ready to spray blood everywhere

how do you look so good
when gunning folks down across a dust bowl?

i suppose you could call it my lack of ambition
or depressive nature
dreaming not of great success
but suicidal self-destructive rage
against the civilised

i've since grown up of course

wouldn't hurt a fly

but please forgive if sometimes i
imagine a pair of jet black shoes
and fashionable clothes

and find a handgun in the folds
with bullets for the banker and the cop