Side Effects II

Monstrously tired of this protagonist schtick,
I prowl London, a retired Ripper,
barely peering where my knife should skate.
Playing the curb as a balance beam,
I consider plunging from the wharf of the heart
into the Dark Thames of Nobodydom,
kick back as an extra in my own story.

The demands would be few:
Head in roughly the same direction
as everybody else. Mill
at bus stations, eyes pinned
to timetables, while music
gargles in gummed up speakers.

Point

at things.

Run when the death rays
carve heiroglyphs in the tarmac,
tumble in the dust fountains
of just-fallen starscrapers.

Shield my eyes.

Win head-wounds.

Whoop when pitched
into pterodactyl waves
by my capsizing ferry. Pedal
furiously.

A drink of air to celebrate
as the sea begins to steam.

My death, when it came, would be easier than sleep,
a side effect of the major conflict,
another little missive reading 'They Mean Business'
addressed to the panting Real Hero.

Instead of some unearned hospital scene
with drips and the moon as my guest.