Character Assassination (Freddy Krueger meets Julius Caesar)

There’s a creepy knock on the door,

a Permatan mask at the window.

But the frame is painted shut,

it will not open –

even to the shriek of children’s laughter.

You do not live on Elm Street yet.

 

The man behind that face,

you dreamt him dead

just yesterday.

Stiffed in a long-planned plot.

 

Not by telescopic execution,

nor clumsy piece reached past

the flailing arms of bodyguards.

Rather

the personal touch

of a stiletto slid

between shirt buttons, deep

into his left ventricle.

Silent

as a deportation order

served at night.

 

It was so easy,

who would have thought?

 

Blood floods his white-shirt front,

and bigly stains the wide red tie. 

Step back.

In your mind’s eye, witness

colour drain from his cheeks,

the radiotoxic cadmium wig

scrabbling to the floor

like a mutant guinea pig.

 

Many, many people are saying

he had a really tremendous relationship with God

and good genes, such good genes.

 

It matters not. Dead means dead.

Unless,

as you pause the first spade

of freshly dug earth,

blade held in mid-air,

there’s the flicker of a soundbite

beneath those rubber eyelids.

 

And then the ghastly joke’s on us.

Night overtakes day and we must choose.

Trick or treat?

 

x. 2024