a dumb homeage to the arbitrary but well choreographed fight scene

i do knee slides, knees
leave red marks on the floor
and i’m classy like count dracula
my red marks squelching i’m bleeding so hard
and i’m knee sliding harder, every time
bigger run ups, faster into more air-time
splashing as i land then sliding, all
the while splashing some more – i’m making a mess
and they threaten to remove me and i ask them why
they point at my knees and i see only kneecaps
and shredded pulled flesh around them, heavily peppered
and bloody and hairy. i’ve spare trousers i say,
to cover my wounds
and they point at my mess on their carpets
red rivers stagnant, i
look on proudly and threaten to sue
“it’s your carpets what did this! you animals”
they advance with great haste but
i move so quick, jump-spin kicks
to guitar licks, i dodge then dip, throwing
sweeping kicks, jump-uppercuts, headbutts n’
flailing fists, all critical hits, crimson
silhouettes amidst pink mist fighting i,
this dark blur swirling, taking all life.
and i catch the scent of a worthy adversary
and as the mist settles i can make out the shape
of a bone spear hurtling towards me, i’m lifted from the ground
now impaled against a wall, mist replaced by haze
and i’m becoming ornamental. spluttering,
i utter my final words
i’m an only child and i think it shows
and if no one heard me then i utter them again (louder this time)


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