where does it go this inside man who robs the day of its light and the night of its fight
a man tip to toe an amalgam of things that crack, and soil, crease and coil, 55 struggling on his feet
naked he paces the imaginary creating a muff of red and smut to make his cut all the more plausible
but first comes the eye, a pin prick of a thing, charming the canvas to play the game and you to follow
and the fingers to prod in the chest, a bully policeman, a coward, a fool, to give it to you easy
to make you fall, in the blast when it comes on strong