She Swings Like A Champion

She swings like a champion,
a rampant title fighter
with blazing eyes and frothing insults
spit like venom from reptile daggers.

Whether a lamp or a telelphone, or just a ring of keys,
objects wrapped in fists launched like warheads
luckily plunge far and wide.

Hands through drywall
like gorilla fists past car windows,
slivers of the mirror deep in the carpet
sparkle like snow in the shattered hallway.

Wrought iron fences watch as my things are thrown over
and the dogs all cirlcle like some angry hunt.
Lights on the pathway weave with temperance
a feigned accord manicured with growth and green

that match her eyes, calculating and arranged
with such horrible order and cool determination
I’m in awe of such evil,
an absolute masterpiece of destruction.

When the fury finally wanes
the lust doth wax.
Vehemence is followed by wanton consumption
of each others’ heat and breath.

The blood and rage simmers down to skin we covet,
armor is exhumed as fingers and mouths
burgeon a new battle,
forging into soft wilderness with careful movements.

The fierce adrenaline
traded for new endorphins
floods our fluids
in a warm revelation.

When I awake, alone,
still drunk on fancy and rancor,
I feel my cheek where the rock she wears
dug an indelible ditch beneath my eye.

Nighttime violence
is the aperitif of insane copulation.
A habit dressed in misdemeanors
that requests orders of restraint.

Resolving to never press charges
assumes our mad devotion,
assuages our cold loneliness and
assures our uncertain sanctity.

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One response to “She Swings Like A Champion

  1. The way you put it, I almost wish I could relate. Heard about such things but never experienced them first hand. Still not quite a fantasy. But it makes me wonder about the experiance.

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