scruta

Either you are sorting it out, or you are full of it.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

A Fight Behind the Temple of Heaven

Smash of a bottle, and raised

Hands grab for shirts to rend,

But only scuffle and writhe

LIke an immense octopus

Plucked from water and thrown upon dry land,

Its suction-sewn tentacles wriggling to bring it aright

With eight minds of its own.

Someone brings a stool to bear upon the behemoth,

To bring its feelers to rest,

To smack its parts into submission,

To break its cotton binding:

The relationship that went wrong between

These affronted fellows, falling to the street.

The crowd gathers and gawks and jibes,

Salivating on the sight, as if waiting for a feast.

Soon they’re cleaved apart, these octopus fighters,

No doubt to fry in holding cells. The crowd is sated,

Taken in their fill.

posted by ferret at 11:26 am  

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