Punch-Drunk, Purgatory and Poetry

The pugilist at rest now,
Knuckle soaked bandages
Strap bones to defeated walk.
Lonely hands soft to caress.

Tender is the fight
Between warring lovers,
Entwined limbs maul the spectators.
Glass-jaw breath sp(l)its the canvas.

The bull only rages in nocturnal bouts with his own fists,
She gloves herself to sleep in the reach of night’s wrists.
Shadow days are roped [ when they were contenders ]

Hooked to corners by southpaw grammar
Linguistic gum-shields mute communication,
Tongues drawn along the teeth
He only spoke between her thighs.

Seconds out,
Awaiting the bell of nothing filled eternity,
His father (who lived his failed dreams through his son)
Felled fatally in his grave.