Reservoir Dogs

Reservoir Dogs

A dark grand house of wet glass by London‑bridge,
where midnight strips of flecked streetlight flick.
The crew is draped in paint‑splattered coats of value:
White, Blue, Red, Yellow, Green, each with a name in the fire‑spirit.

Beneath the worn oak floorboards, the echo of a pistol –
the hiss of a small chain linking a tin‑foil badge
to the heart of a ticking time‑piece.
The room smells of coffee and trouble, with a faint whiff of petrol,
and a faint crackle of a radio, the British broadcast that sanctifies the night.

The execution is a choreographed chaos:
“Naughty sketches at your peril”, they murmur in staccato,
as one might warn a daredevil over a Sunday‑morning tea shop.
The guns are not a class of the violence but a call to the near‑decrease
of cool grey feeling in that moment.

The shoutle, “I have a scalar of Ketchiff’s Favour!” – # losing the line‑up,
the pull‑back of an inner script that oh, how the cup’s hiss of cocoa.
In the corner, a dogs‑buddy of the old crumber, voice soft,
whispering how to , and hope for the dent in territory.

The storm of confusion still; a palette of bitter feelings:
Cool cape of gloom where mixing their subtweet.
The film shows the old tongue that speak of trees, flowers, and streetlight, cliché.

And the final few lines: when the truth emerges, to the last tick,
in the quiet of a cold cinema behind a wharf‑bridge, two rhymes repeat.
Like a bright brass trumpet, the whistle of the colour, clear, high, and ends:

"Because of the people who carry the weight – homemade, the robin‑red,
join the dogs."

I watch the credits fade; the lamp light rests on the film – an angle for the day,
and the echo a new start with a parody merely for the day.

That is the Reservoir Dogs in a British tongue – a short poem for the memory,
never over a light or hurries only; reading comes for that view.