Tv On Snipe

in the arena of battle, t.v. on snipe drawing his long sword from its sheath, every inch cacophonously sharpened sinister with geared teeth nonsense forms from ancient bowels, utterance of a lion woken from sleep roaring out profanity and analytical resound, playback of every word she speaks to ad nauseum her smaller sword cuts the air, pierces like acupuncture, nonetheless irritates the tongues of wobbling aluminum footwork choreographed as they’ve played out this scene many times she licks her wounds he rams his fist into the newly painted white wall she runs to the bathroom, rolling out the entire roll of t.p. now that he’s alone her words clang like a cymbal clang clang over and over again he examines his bloody sword, the bruises on four knuckles and thinks he’s gone mad. who is this snorting bull? he hears her tears flowing through the plumbing pipes, the dirge of their fight. he says to himself “stupid..stupid” cemented feet won’t move nor the ones that are drowned in self pity. the sun dies, the moon howls morning coffee’s poured with stinging eyes. regrets must be sugared by teaspoons, forgotten with passing days until all seems right once more. dark days pass slowly. 5/31/2018