To the death, we say,
Breath licked with flame, spits to my face;
His face.
Racing temples pump furious blood
Through ferrous veins,
Manes rise, eyes blister with relentless rage;
Eventless.
Then, clenched fists draw clotted blood
Through plum knuckles.
My neck buckles,
His neck,
Cracking bone like tinder,
The interweave of puffed ribs and scarlet skin
Glisten with fetid sweat;
I reach out and grasp for his throat.
My throat.
Grapple the split apple within,
Choking war cries gurgle,
Swung pendulums of validity, rapidly decrease,
Cease at the meeting of flesh.
What a mess.
His bleeding cheek drips pearls to the floor,
My poor face, fissured and drawn
Squints through the swell.
Muted fury galvanizes the pain
And again and again the torrent comes.
My torrent,
Extended illusions from which I cannot rouse,
Lousy pickings, plucking the meat
From my bones
And casting them at his feet.
My feet.
Cherry-picking hate under copper skies
Before the endless battle of one
And the blind gun pointing inexorable turmoil
At my dissevered mind.