Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Fists A Flying; brainstorm

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood covered canvas sweat stained ropes
smacked then smashed in the mouth
ropes bounce me back with terrific g-force
My mind rings what am I fighting for?
Where is the exit door?

Rotund Rasputin snickers behind me
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn and face them
a battle royal but everyone's against me.
A battle royal that I'll never win.
Did I once see the finish line?
The mirage rising on a hazy day on the highway
or hallucinations drinking from the spigot,
one then the other confuses the senses.
What is real what is surreal and what is fake
comes rounds about in swirls in circles
of a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

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