Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, March 20, 2014 Under: Poetry

The sky had Farsi slits for clouds
I tried interpreting, and made out ‘Lennox Lewis’
It sufficed to say that my mind was centered on boxing
or Lennox was really up there, scrawled in the wisps
crowned heavyweight king with the predator’s self detonating arm

Arnie’s running through the woods now…
flinging dreadlocks behind his back as he goes
The hunter follows, model of brutality, elated in pursuit
Burlap sacks of flesh hang from canopies by the dozen
butchery on an outer world is host to a similar specimen:
not a xenomorph or a Mike Tyson jaguar,
but an improvised war machine, a holy field of land mines
A wholly nickname for fighters, those who exceed in stamina
and remain technical, mechanical, even in tired situations

On a hill of green, a hilt of alien gold lifts to the light
Revealing a mast of a formidably sized autonomous ballista 
launching clenched fiists towards skulls, made of magnetized rock
slinging paper view numbers in fast paced terrestrial slugfests
Right hook, left uppercut, visor splits, foe responds
with a spinning back blade & invitation to dinner in polar chambers
Don’t watch sequels, they say. Body shot plays out
on the screen of his ribs… it’s the championship of the world
as bionic hand takes on street brawler without cardiovascular updates

Streamers are given out, jungle alcoves are stamped with prelim results
The hollow of the earth even bequeaths talk of this match up
Fire, wind, ice, swamp-rough skin grafted, parlay in a cage
Warden-built Cerebro, a marvelous sight to see it get haggled
One behemoth passes daisy dipper nicely to an up & comer
digging a grave for the man across the ring
who mistakenly called his skills alien, questioned his heart
Challenged his adherence to the code of universal honor
Eventually, we all get knocked out of orbit

In : Poetry 

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