The Assassin Sonnets: Complete A to Z

A: ASSASSIN

It is the simplicity that always
leads him astray. The clean lines of a gun;
the narrow focus upon the heart, or
the tricky head shot. He catches himself
dozing as he oils and cleans the barrel.

For Jon Kopek, these are halcyon days:
One man’s tragedy is another’s fun,
as he sights along Glastonbury Tor
and whispers ‘any prize from the top shelf’
for hitmen with the hippest apparel.

His own trademark is a vintage guitar
case, stolen from the wreck of Bolan’s car.
Into his crosshairs – laughing, blonde and tanned -
steps the latest martyr to quit a band.

B: BULLETS

No death is natural. We could all live
forever, if not for the cool agents
of entropy in their mirrored glasses
and mannered clothes. But Kopek does not give
a fuck for fashion, if mere style prevents
him from hitting home: To kick fat arses
with a pointy toed Italian shoe
is a fitting use for hand tooled leather.

Bullets are not bee stings. There is magic
in murder, commensurate with the pain
it brings. He is not too troubled whether
the outcomes are just, deplored or tragic,
so long as there is change. ‘What is the gain
without loss?’ he asks. ‘When will it be you?’

C: COUNTING

He counts the shots, for each spent cartridge must
be found and taken from the scene. As dust
still settles, he is already long gone.

For one moment, reflected sunlight shone
from his telescopic sights and he feared
discovery, but no police appeared.

Two hits to the abdomen; upper right
chest; neck; left eye and a clean miss. His fight
or flight reflexes kick in and he runs.

Six, he thinks. Six, as he unscrews the gun’s
silencer, scorching his fingers on hot
metal. Descending the Tor at a trot.

He conceals the weapon up his coat sleeve.
A crowd gathers, but no-one sees him leave.

D: DESTINY

A hippie girl offers to read his palm;
cordite stains and all. She fails to divine
any hint of death in his destiny.

Instead, she fixes on what she believes
he is carrying. No, not some karmic
weight. Rather, she is fooled by the decoy
of a cheap guitar and talk of music.

Kopek is hyper from his kill, yet calm
on the surface. Marc’s spirit gives no sign
how close the girl is to eternity.

Oblivious, she holds his hand and weaves
a web of wishful thinking round the lie
that is his life. He is loath to destroy
her world. Besides, he needs an alibi.

E: EJECTED

Her name sounds like a joke: Diane De’Ath.
What were her parents on? he wonders, as
the light of candles on her hennaed hair
gives it a sheen like blood.

Like blood, her hair
pools round her head, resembling a mortal
wound too much for his comfort.

Discomfort
with this image makes him more aware than
ever of the brass shells in his pocket,
digging into his skin.

His skin feels cold
with fear, yet hers is cooler. Her copper
bangles ting with the same dead note struck by
ejected cartridges hitting the ground.

‘Ground yourself,’ she urges. ‘Breathe deep and slow,
while concentrating on a candle’s glow.’

F: FORENSICS

Outside, in the Glastonbury mud, there
is a tent raised over the remains. White
garbed forensic officers seek in vain
for clues. Other than the angle of fire,
there is little to report. No motive
is obvious for this professional
hit. Police start to interview the crowd.

No-one is permitted to leave, but there
is no way to stop them breaking the white
and blue tape barriers. It is a vain hope
that a few stoned hippies round a campfire
will provide much assistance. Yet motive
must be found, or else professional
pride is dented and law lost in the crowd.

G: GNOMON

‘Peace, man.’ He splits his fingers in a Spock
salute. ‘How are things in Olde Dock Green?’

The copper stays expressive as a rock
and asks, ‘Where were you at 3 o’clock, son?’

‘You shock me, bobby. Am I a suspect?
I’m just here to rock. So chill out, my friend.’

‘There’s no need to mock. A man is dead, so
answer my question or I’ll lock you up.’

‘Look, I ain’t got no clock. Concepts of Time
are fascist thoughts in which I place no stock.’

‘Between Hillage and Hawkwind’s Sonic Shock,
then. Or is the linear too baroque?’

‘Touché, bluebottle. Let’s not measure cock.
Ask me again and I won’t knock you back.’

H: HIDING

This interrogation comes far too late,
for the evidence is now well concealed.
He has flushed the shells down a chemical
toilet and exchanged his coat for a pot
of lentil soup. The gun is broken up
into components that form integral
parts of his guitar and case. His clothes are
grimed enough so they don’t look designer.
He smells of incense, patchouli oil and
sweaty sex. If there are powder burns on
his hand, they are contaminated by
honest dirt. Diane doesn’t know what day
it is, let alone the time they first met:
Fucked into endorphin based amnesia.

I: INSPIRED

His spare gear is stashed in a locker at
Taunton station. He has a wash and shave
in the public toilets. He is not sure
whether to keep his hair long, so ties it
back with an elastic band. He changes
clothes in a cubicle and emerges
wired: Ready to move on to his next hit.

He could leave Diane behind. She is sat
beneath the destination board and would
not notice him, unless he gave a sign.
She smells of violets. Her voice is pure,
as she sings a song from the hit parade
that he can’t stand. Something changes: His heart
surges and he feels inspired to trust it.

J: JOURNEY

‘I thought you were a local girl,’ he says.
It is a question. ‘The whole world is my
home,’ she answers with evasion. ‘I go
where the Goddess wills.’ Her eyes are wide with
kohl and pagan zeal. ‘I am not the road;
I am the wheel.’ Oh yes, he thinks. And my
life is a roller coaster ride of kills.

The chrome finish of his car is argent,
clean as maidens’ tears. There is music in
this man; raw and urgent, that no-one hears
but her. She breathes the antique leather trim
and swallows travel sickness. The grey clouds
of his eyes cast a shadow that obscures
his slickness. The Goddess says, ‘Go with him.’

K: KUDOS

Tributes are pouring in for Steve Leggrin,
former lead guitar with ‘Wages Of Sin’.

He could throttle a fret like the Boston
Strangler. He was up there beside Clapton.

Omigod, omigod. It’s past belief.
I’m shocked. I’m devastated. Numb with grief.

His was a talent cut short on the brink
of solo stardom. It’s tragic, I think.

He joins the pantheon of stars who burn
too bright, too soon. As we mourn, we must learn.

He put the git in guitar, so I ain’t
gonna paint him white, like some fucking saint.

To be shot down like that. Man, it’s so hard.
He was god, geezer and rock’n’roll bard.

L: LUNCH

London or Liverpool, Manchester or
Leeds. Any place will do. But, for now, Jon
feeds his face in a motorway café.

Diane watches in dismay as he shoves
bacon butties down his neck. Don’t you know
about cholesterol? Your heart’s a wreck.

He cleans his plate with a fried slice and downs
a mug of tea. Everything must fail, that’s
the law of entropy. My heart is sound

and it’s ‘As Much As You Can Eat’ for ten
pound. Got to get my money’s worth. That was
instilled in me from the time of my birth.

We are only three meals from anarchy;
isn’t that what they say? Sounds true to me.

M: MEMORABILIA

‘So, how do you earn your money?’ The lines
converge on his hand: Fate, Fortune, Love, Life.
X marks the spot. A nexus point is nigh.

‘I target talent. Take my ten percent.’
There is always the Next Big Thing to find
as time and tastes mutate. Boredom is rife.
He must cull the herd. It is change or die.

He dons his specs to scan the N.M.E.
They were Lennon’s and the glass was broken,
but he likes their geek chic NHS frames.

‘I’m flush now, though it’s all impermanent.’
He is a natural force, like gravity.
That’s how he sees it. By the same token,
his rules are as lax as those for children’s games.

N: NEXT

Out in the car park, Martyn Redhead smokes
a fag on the tour bus steps while he waits
for their roadie to fetch breakfast. He plays
drums with ‘The Lemmings’. They are second rate,
but have their place.

Kopek makes his move, in
the guise of a fan seeking an auto-
graph. Martyn hawks and does not disguise his
disdain for a middle class metal freak.
As he turns his head, he reveals a skull
tattoo on his neck.

Kopek stabs his pen
in one inky socket. Twists. Tears open
the jugular. Steps away from pollocks
of arterial spray.

Martyn plays one
final paradiddle with his boot heels.

O: ONWARD

With just one glance in the rear view mirror,
he resumes the road. There is smoke rising
from the burning tour bus. The bandana
he stripped from Martyn’s head to clean his pen
also made a handy two minute fuse
to turn the petrol tank into a bomb.

If this is a war, then its killing field
is ill defined. His tactic is terror,
with all the collateral it may bring.
For Kopek views the whole panorama
of human existence as a mere Zen
paradox: How can we prepare to lose
and expect to win? Yet he borrows from
Saddam: Diane will be his living shield.

P: PLUCKED

‘Do you play?’ To pass the time, she strums his
customised acoustic. It has an odd
timbre, due to its extra metal parts.

‘Not much these days.’ He feels an urge to kiss
the pink Jelly Tots of her nipples. God
built a design flaw into people’s hearts.

She is aware of his arousal, which
is hard to keep a secret in such tight
trousers. She contemplates a quick blow job.

‘Oh fuck!’ He almost drives into a ditch.

They find a cheap hotel and spend the night
coaxing feedback screech from rusty bed springs,
until they cannot speak but only sob
for air as their nerves vibrate like plucked strings.

Q: QUANTUM

He takes the car to be valeted, though
really he is dumping it, in case it
was caught on CCTV. The trail ends
here: It is still registered to Farrokh
Bulsara and no-one has noticed that
it was stolen from his country estate.

There is another world in which Leggrin
is still alive and due to have a hit
record. His music will create new trends
and bring about a renaissance in rock.

But this is not that world. There will be no
breakthrough album. Somewhere in Kopek’s flat,
the master tapes are hidden and the fate
of pop culture is burst as with a pin.

R: ROCK

In ‘The Hard Place’ Bar, they serve beer, burgers
and twelve bar blues, all equally lukewarm.
Kopek is dressed down in plain black T-shirt
and jeans that would cost a week’s wages for
most punters. Diane clings onto his arm.

This place is loud and dark. A haunt of Goths
and bikers in uneasy truce. With hair
pinned up beneath a cowboy hat and slim
body draped in baggy denim, she feels
conspicuous. Eyes tear her limb from limb.

‘Welcome to my office.’ Jon says and steers
her to an empty space. With ‘The Lemmings’
indisposed, there is a spare set onstage
tonight and he might kill who takes their place.

S: STRANGE

There are strange forces at work in the world.
Diane believes in UFOs and ghosts,
amongst other things, while Jon’s faith is placed
in what is palpable. Yet tachyons
and quarks are just as difficult to prove.

‘The flags of love remain forever furled.’
He hears these words and turns to watch the band.

Their singer is a woman, whose command
of the stage is effortless, as she coasts
through each number and the music is graced
by her performance. The grim environs
of the bar are transformed by her cool groove.

‘Sheila Tarn and the Tarnations! Let’s hear
it for the girls!’ Even Jon joins the cheer.

T: TEMPTED

He slips backstage with the quiet cunning
of his art. He looks as if he belongs -
and so he does. It does not take him long
to find her dressing room. Sounds of running
water mask his entry. Sheila showers
and he admires her curves through frosted glass.
His intent is deadly, but this is farce.

He is tempted to abuse his powers
and become a Peeping Tom. Or enact
that famous scene from ‘Psycho’, if only
a knife were at hand. It is so lonely
to be without a weapon; to exact
his purpose in such naked terms. She turns
the taps off and his bravado returns.

U: UNCOMFORTABLE

‘Well, this is certainly a cut above.’
He quaffs a glass of her after gig wine
and salutes her towelled and turbaned form
as she emerges from the perfumed steam.

‘Do come in and make yourself comfy, love.’
She sits and waits to hear what corny line
he has to sell. Though blue, her eyes are warm
as summer skies, despite their icy gleam.

There are scissors on the dressing table
he could thrust into the base of her skull
and sever her spinal cord. It’s a thought.

Or he could strangle her with the cable
of her hair dryer. But that would be dull.
He hesitates and the moment is fraught.

V: VOICE

Diane waits impatiently in the bar.
There is something contrived about the vibe
of this manufactured scene; post modern
pockets of plastic packaged neo-punk.

In pursuit of Kopek, she has strayed far
from her life’s path. Surrounded by a tribe
of lifestyle anarchists in her coven
of one; she drinks still water, yet feels drunk.

She spots Sheila, with her cerise coiffure
that looks almost natural with her choice
of clothes and make-up; her charms obvious
in a Barbie doll way. Jon looks unsure
as he walks beside her and in his voice
a tone that makes Diane feel envious.

W: WHATEVER

Back in his minimal black and white flat,
Kopek is distracted.

Despite Diane’s
best efforts, he stays flaccid.

Though he has
‘stabbed’ her repeatedly and witnessed her
convulsed in the throes of le petit mort,
he has not made the overt connection
between penetrative wounds and the act
of sex.

Whatever self awareness he
possesses is subsumed by metaphors
of a different nature.

In modern
tarot decks, Death is often replaced by
Transformation.

‘Are you thinking of her?’

Some questions are so wide of the mark, they
are meaningless.

Some answers are silent.

X: XENOLITHIC

‘We are all stars, to - Each constellation
some extent. What I - is testament to
do is make room in - synchronicity:
the firmament for - The random nature
the newest to shine.’ - of the universe.

This is the kind of - Diane has a sense
bullshit that Sheila - of shape in chaos,
has heard so often, - of a Goddess cloaked
she does not take heed. - in silvered onyx.

Until the offer - She walks a dark path,
of a support gig - as Kopek’s shadow
at Wembley becomes - is thrown into sharp
reality and - relief by a blaze
Jon is to be thanked. - of approaching light.

Y: YOD

He was born shortly after sunrise with
his ruling planet, the Moon, on the plane
of his Descendant. It formed a quincunx
with both the Sun and Mars, which in turn were
in sextile: A pointer on his birth chart.

She draws lines, for he does not mention kith
nor kin and she would dearly love to gain
a deeper insight. And though he debunks
such methods, his instinct is to defer
to her wisdom. She is mapping his heart.

He stands behind her in the crowd – arms crossed
around her neck, face pressed into her hair -
with ten thousand souls about to be lost.
As the show begins, he ceases to care.

Z: ZERO

With Wembley Stadium in flames behind
him, Kopek walks away into the night.

The detonator he used to ignite
a battery of incendiary bombs

is still clutched in one bloodstained hand. The Proms
never had a Last Night that could compete

with such an apocalypse. Just one sweet
slice from a serrated blade and Diane

fell as if hit by shrapnel. The dying
and the dead fell round her as Sheila burned

on stage. His solution to lovers spurned
was radical and final. He forgets

what started this spree. A change of targets
would be good. He has footballers in mind.