Russian Jack

Have you met Jack?
I’m sure you know the guy:
Terrifyingly handsome,
Commands any room
With his full bodied, wild haired
Telling of stories
About his time in Russia,

Under your cover.

You listen to him,
Could watch him all day,
The way his slender fingers gesticulate as he talks
And his animated eyes flash everywhere like exploding Molotov Cocktails,
Eyes that look straight through you,
At you,
Into you
Like you are the only person in the room,
The only person that matters.

The practised art of espionage.

And you begin to believe his bullshit,
Drawn in as he pours you another glass of cheap white wine in a cloudy glass
Whilst recounting memories of clandestine conquests,  coverups, corruption,
Sub-zero temperatures, the coolness of gunmetal on skin,
The smell of blood and fear and lust.


And then, before you know it, it’s too late to be saved.
You’ve become part of the conspiracy
Giving up your secrets as you whisper breathlessly,
Into the ear
Of that terrifying, handsome, funny Russian Jack.



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