Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Fists a Flying; draft #1

Step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes splotches covering the canvas
smashed mouth shakes through my body and I fall backward
ropes bounce me back g-forces whipping sweat off my body
like a dog shaking off after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

Rotund Rasputin
snickers mouth full feed dribbles out onto the carpet,
ties tight locks down right
pad locks and dirty knots
dead bolt on the exit door.

I turn to face a battle royal where everyone's my enemy.
Did I once see the finish line as a mirage
rising murky on the highway
or drinking hallucinations from a dream works spigot:
one or the other or both at once confuse my senses,
and what is real what is surreal what is fake
comes round about circling in swirls
in a hot tub rising above a hundred degrees
now full of broth
so hot it burns.

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