Death against life
powdered with reactionary battles
of truth versus the dark.
Muggers strike
lone wolfs bite on second sight.
Can’t leave it to chance.
If pounced on before, what is to say
it won’t be the same, the second dance?
Battered in the play.
Too far to turn back
and not have cracked at least a jaw
or two.
Scratched, kicked, sawed, spared and stabbed
with automaton’s claws to win this fight:
constantly squirming in the realm of a defensless child’s
screaming
dead of night.
And I can’t ink it straight when so wrapped up in draining jokes…
So give this one (poem away)
leave it to chance (as to what they’ll say)…
Or choke (on your bacardi and coke).

Mike O’Toole