How like dime novels, the prizefighter is
when beaten to a pulp; he tried to say
that no one in the world could put him down.
Sisyphus had his philosopher’s stone–
with his chiseled features and broken hands,
the champ turned to Gold and said, “Violence
has come to a head.” Punch-drunk, on the ropes,
he can hang on ev’ry word, or save face
and take a dive. While thirsting for glory
with that broken glass on his gloves, the damned
continues to jab, to weave, and to dance
till the page has turned. One reads, or is bled.
What hell is this? The prizefighter sees stars,
and yet he reaches for a Galaxy.
when beaten to a pulp; he tried to say
that no one in the world could put him down.
Sisyphus had his philosopher’s stone–
with his chiseled features and broken hands,
the champ turned to Gold and said, “Violence
has come to a head.” Punch-drunk, on the ropes,
he can hang on ev’ry word, or save face
and take a dive. While thirsting for glory
with that broken glass on his gloves, the damned
continues to jab, to weave, and to dance
till the page has turned. One reads, or is bled.
What hell is this? The prizefighter sees stars,
and yet he reaches for a Galaxy.
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