And he awoke to the smell of his blood
Looking in the broken glass on the floor
His face all cut to shreds
Turning away meeting more barbed-wire
Screaming in pain
More and more red flows
The grass in which he kneels
Becoming more like a battlefield
Filling with the blood of him and his enemy
People standing on the patio
Clapping and shouting
This wasn’t Fight Club
Although it was their pleasure
Many people would look for a sexual release
But not here
For just a few hours imitators become innovators
Though his face is hardly recognisable
Though he can hardly stand on his own
The bloody hand reaches out
Shaking his nemeses’ hand
They both meet each others eyes
And all they could say
“Same time next week”
Comments
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Whew ...
a bit too sanguinary for my taste, but it's certainly in your face and up front.
I am not at all fond of the smell of blood, and I've never seen "Fight Club". However, you must have, or else you have a very lively imagination.
Anyway, good luck with your writing in the future.
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i loved it.
great write!!
great flow of emotion..
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Great poem loved it
well done its dark
and bloody and sad
well done
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