Friday, May 7, 2010

Fists a Flying; draft #2

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

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

I turn to face
a battle royale but everyone's against me.
I once saw the finish line
a mirage rising murky on the highway
and drank deep of hallucinations from a dreamworks spigot:
one or the other or both at once confused my senses,
and what is real fades in and out
comes round about
circles in swirls
in a hot tub thermostat shooting to the moon
110 degrees and now full of broth:
so hot it burns.

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