The Assassin Sonnets: K to R

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.

Parts A to J posted 30/07/08.

Parts S to Z to follow.