A guy is filmed on a beach. He
is carrying a gun
not unlike guns carried by
Hollywood movie stars
on the covers of DVD “must see” action films - you know
that man-alone look, that
troubled soul look.
that straight to video
this-is-an-earner look,
that down to the ground look
of anguish and grief,
that I’m-a-good-looking-tough-guy
look.
They’ve all been captured in
that moody stance,
Clooney, Costner, Pitt,
Washington, Seagal, Statham, Neeson, Willis,
Stallone, Schwarzenegger (he
used to be an elected politician)
and others and others and
others, romantic souls under contract driven
to sort out the bad guys
regardless of anyone who gets in the way.
There is blood. There is
always blood and lots of it.
There is death, there is
destruction, mostly in slo-mo.
What appalls us in real life,
entertains us in the movies.
We vomit our disgust at
horrific news before gorging ourselves with popcorn.
I’m sixty-one. I watched
westerns as a kid on the horse-arm of a settee.
I have not the slightest urge
to be trigger-happy, to walk any streets
and challenge gunslingers to
perform Kid Curry do or die draws.
I know the fantasy. I can see
the reality. I know right from wrong.
I was taught religion but I’m
not a fanatic kidding myself
that a voice in the clouds is
telling me to shoot to kill for God, for God’s sake.
There is a guy in a US city
with an ambition to start a race war,
a guy, it is reported, who got
a gun for his birthday.
I got a gun once for my
birthday, a plastic Winchester rifle,
a firearm that couldn’t hit a
cow’s arse from two inches away
because, for Christ’s sake and
in the name of all that’s holy, it was plastic.
The bombers, the beheaders,
the murderers, the insane fuckwits –
just do your worst, then
disappear because with all the bullshit
in your nut-brittle heads, you
will not change a thing.
People with guns will never
get into legitimate power.
Oh, hang on, wait a minute,
think about it. Think.
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