The Porridge King

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The Porridge King

It was about breathing, inhale, exhale
it was about movement and sight
about impact, pain, sweat and blood, yeah blood.
You always like seeing blood on the other guy
the guy you bet your money against.

When you saw the first trickle of red
you could tell a pro in just how he worked it:
a little of it could always be more
would always be more if your guy was good
and he knew how to work it.

It was about the punch -- beyond the impact
there's the twist, the glove molding to skin
a turning, burning friction as vinyl rotates
sticking to the flesh and tearing it away
opening a cut, drawing bright red, blissful red.

Yeah it was good, the blood on the gloves
on the face. Above the eyes it blinded him
in the nose or mouth and he drowned.
And the smell, you could see it in the eyes
your guy smelled the blood, you saw it in his eyes.

It was about corners, where trainers and cut men
tried to make them whole again -- for a few minutes more.
And the neutral corner, where your guy stood
while the other guy, on knees, gasped for air.
One shuffled in the corner, the other pondered death.

Death was real, they knew it, saw it all the time:
in the ring it was sudden, more often it was slow
a little more with each fight, each punch.
Subtle in its touch -- a twitch in the arm
blurred vision, a slur in the words, forgotten numbers.

It was about numbers, about odds and rounds
it was about counts: the standing eight
rarely shorter anymore, often longer.
One waits in the corner, the other dazed, aching
in a slow motion world of pain, ending with the count… nine, ten.

You count your money if you can, if your guy won
and the other bled enough, choked enough, fell enough.
Then you walk away to a bar or home
while a faint light shines on torn skin
swollen eyes, the bruises and broken bones.

It was about winning and losing, living, dying
about pain, sacrifice, discipline and blood --
damp, sweaty gyms, high odds and long shots
a fleeting hope of glory, a whispered hint of cash
and to the loser a bit of death, one breath at a time.

And the victor, hailed and crowned
parades into the night wearing dark glasses.
At breakfast, the winner, the champion, the king
with wired jaws, sips porridge from a straw
through the corner of his mouth.


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4 Comments
WickedEveWickedEveover 19 years ago
bloody good poem

a poem with punch.

lipsticksunset1984lipsticksunset1984over 19 years ago
Nice...

...hard-boiled stuff. I enjoy reading your work very much, and you never disappoint.

EumenidesEumenidesover 19 years ago
Wow wow wow!

This poem was amazing. I'm finding myself without the right words. But I'll try. *grins*

Your imagery, the jagged consistency you formed, just hit the mark. I felt like I knew this atmosphere even though I know nothing about it. I was there, and I was in it. I was reading it aloud and loving how it felt on my tongue as I did.

The only thing that I would even attempt to say didn't work was the continued use of your guy and the other guy. Sometimes they were too close together, and perhaps finding another way to differentiate the characters would be better.

That's not to say that I didn't love love love this poem. I've tasted your words and I want more, sug.

perksperksover 19 years ago
perkspective

this is one hell of a poem. It's tough, and real, and I like it.

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