Soundzine

Swift Nick and Co.

Swift Nick and canting crew on another gallant foray,
piled in his motor—six dressed-up-for-the-soiree,
tricorn-sporting masked roves.
                                                       Sky’s already starry
south of Hammersmith, wind’s a demon, moon looks hoary
No bandog’s gunna bone them tonight—no, sirree
Takes more than a rum bite to catch this quarry!
Still, thinks arch-rogue Nick, better safe than sorry
So better put some distance between any adversary
and us, or else the morning drop might stand in for the glory,
or rather, give us one (he knows the morbid story
of scragged men shooting their last splash of bloke-purée
the moment that they go)—way to memento mori!

Riding shotgun, Jon Fox, whose charm is pure curare,
winning over, when need be, the most foul-tempered jury,
a natural at Vincent’s law whose fams move in a flurry
to unpack bodices or cloy the keys to someone’s brewery
He’s rooting in the glove compartment for some Smiths or R.E.
M.
    Scar-tattooed Blackavar sits fidgeting with worry
Blackavar, the human early warning system, wary
when it counts, ears alert to every car and lorry
a mile around, the lay apparent to him in a query
of wind.
                    Squeezed in, Ms. Ginger Spitfire huffs
                                                                       (Indignitary!)
Hardest, hardiest of them, blunt-hungriest, most sweary,
russet-headed, nips that’d survive a crematory
Not a bat, but nor the sort a gentleman should marry

By one window, Kes the Knave stares like he’s on safari—
the soonest knifer, keen of eye and always predatory,
prone to making rash mistakes which he is quick to bury
His hang-gallows look is known from here to Londonderry
Tarka the Devil, though caged as a canary
in the car, ‘s relaxed as any boy-besotted Tory
He’s famous for escaping from the old constabulary
by swimming seven miles up the North Thames estuary
Each of them is, in their own way, ready, lively, merry
to bite the blow—a gang of villains to be proud of—very
But Swift Nick is watching, with a heart full of fury,
their lives go past in symbols on the left, dim and blurry:
Fulham park, Fulham school, then Fulham cemetery

The Man in the Homburg

“I still believe the secret services are the only real expression of a nation’s character.”
        Bill Haydon

Where have I been? Oh, I met an old friend.
Caught me at the station. Told me he’d come
not as an errand boy, and did not intend
to do the new bloods’ dirty work for them.

He still wears that homburg, you know. Still plays
the Pariah, the futilitarian.
I suppose we all become stuck in our ways.
He asked about you. He said, “How’s Anne?”

Of course, I told him, “Come to the point.”
He said, “Look here, old man. You were right.
All Sir and his cronies do is anoint
each other—’s a farce. By the way, got a light?”

We smoked.
                          “But, look—this isn’t you.
Why don’t you come back? If you can behave
yourself this time, we could try for a coup.
Or will you follow Camus all the way to the grave?”

(Obviously, someone had clued him in
on my literary pursuits.) What could I do?
I told him, “Thank you, but no.”
                                                                         A javelin
couldn’t have pinned me, nor run me through

like his eyes did then.
                                             “You still have enemies,”
he hissed, as I tried to flee the pantomime.
“You know as well as anyone, l’etranger. Please.
If you’ve enemies, it’s only a matter of time.”

 Jon Stone was born in Derby, England in 1983. He is the poetry editor of 'the roundtable review' and a key contributor to Fuselit magazine. His writing has been mostly published by hip young things like The Wolf, Mimesis, Toad in Mud, McSweeney's Internet Tendency and Nth Position but has also found its way into places like Bizarre magazine and publications by the National Association of Writers in Education. He currently lives in Jack the Ripper country.