Noir four

Following on from here, the fourth (final?) part of this noir story-in-verse, each from a different participant's perspective...

Colour me Noir IV: The Suitcase

The click of my catch
is the revolver’s hammer,
thumb-cocked to snuff some poor dope.

The thud as I’m dropped
is the blackjack’s kiss on a sap’s skull –
hug that sidewalk, John Doe.

The first line of light
as my lid opens is the crack
of a KO’d boxer’s swollen eye.

Whoever I see,
witness, killer or corpse,
they’re all my victims in the end –
I am a mirror not of glass.

More noir

It's been a while since part 2, but now the story continues...

Colour Me Noir III: The Victim

The case weighs heavy in my hand,
Contents whisper
Greedy little suggestions,
It feels unwholesome –
Like this dank-walled back-alley,
All damp and mouldered cardboard boxes,
And discarded news-sheets,
Dead-beat inked,
But I gotta wait –

It’s late, he’s later,
Then the tell-tale click
Of slightly limping feet,
In spat-clad patent seg-heeled shoes
On night-wet sidewalk –

He approaches,
Slyly not-quite-smiling
(No doubt those are unsmiling eyes),
Coat long-sweeping, hat broad-brimmed
And shadowing,
Both dark grey like this city’s air;
He beckons, powder-twitch snappy,
‘Give it ‘ere’ –
‘Make with the dough’, he’s told –

We argue but I know
This hell don’t wanna pay his way;
He’s Red-hand Jack’s man OK –
I turn to leave,
He grabs, greasy-palmed,
A shrug – his hand slips from my gaberdine,
Now a push, a shove,
Fingers slip beneath the coat –
Not for the missing roll o’ bills
But a cheap and tarnished gun,
The old revolver fires,
Slug-smoke curls,
Gutted,
I fall blood-hazed – the case pulls free;
Vision dimming, still I see
A woman stop, jaw-dropped –
Who is she?

My story may be done,
But hers not so – not yet – she runs.

Does something lie beneath?

Lake of Flies

The lake looks still.
The lake has only gentle ripples.
The lake hosts clouds of swarming flies.
The flies are unaware
The lake emits an air of menace.
The lake has great, dark conifer-reflection teeth.
The lake wants to drag me in and drown me.
The lake-spirit is not friendly.
The lake-spirit is malign.
The lake-edge is slippery –
All the better to grab a sliding limb
And pull it in;
I pull back.
The lake-water is black.
The lake may be deep or shallow.
The lake is a mirror of obsidian.
The lake stares back.
The lake dares you to stay too long.
The flies do not care.
The flies hum and hypnotise.
They bite and breed,
They breed and feed.
The lake holds onto secrets.
The flies suggest you seek them out.

The lake seems calm.
The lake is.

On with the noir

Last month, I wrote a noir-themed poem - here's part 2, more to come...

Colour Me Noir II: The Witness

Diner double-shift just finished -
Too many dishes -
Home for a well-earned (if illicit) gin;
Take a short-cut,
Cut off five precious minutes
(The boss takes more,
Even from the tips, I’m sure).

Faint fume-edged sounds
Echo down to ground
(Or was that ground-down?)
Level,
A party of swells,
Yeah, that’s right -
Bombshell on the balcony,
Coulda been me...
Ahead, grimy light obscures
(Not quite)
A huddled pair o’ guys
In broad-brim hats,
Little more than silhouettes;
Then a scuffle,
Parenthesised by heated harsh exchanges -
Both step back -
Muzzle-crack,
The bigger one (no gun)
Slides down the wall.

Seconds later,
Suitcase dragged from still-twitching,
Near-stiff fingers -
The Small Man stands,
Draws on a cheap crumpled-packet cigarette -
Its dirty orange glow highlights
Worn silver letters on the case -
J.M.H. -
I realise I’ve stopped,
Not quite shadow-safe;
He sees -
Teeth glint in
An it’s-your-rictus grin -
I kick off my heels and run;
This story’s just begun.

NaPoWriMo day 9

NaPoWriMo day 9. The theme is noir, noir is the theme.

Colour me noir

Lamplight and shadows,
Black big-sixes,
Chinks of white light cut through Camel-filtered air,
Honed sharp by silver gelatin,
Wiseguys with telltale armpit-bulges,
Sip bootleg whiskey sours,
Speakeasy-speech is spoken hard,
Of rubes and capers, shivs and bulls,
Chassis-hungry heavies snatch leaden-lidded glances,
At platinum blondes, all kohled-up and Sheba-eyed,
Peering down on dirty deals
Struck in sepia-smogged back-alleys,
Whispered threats,
Colt’s spitfire crack,
Blood-stained spats,
Dull thud in the night,
Battered brown suitcase changes dead hands,
The flash of a monogram,
A furtive glance - a witness seen, flees;
This story’s just beginning.