Obfuscation

Part 2

In which recent months in the life of The Fighter are recounted, with regards to his loss in a boxing match on the beach, how he has become a target for youths wanting to make a name for themselves, and how he has turned to space tourism and living with a Spanish dub music collective in the shadow of his loss, avoiding the life he once lived.

It is possible he should have allowed

the blood poisoning from his tooth

to swallow him after the knock taken

in the beachside ring back six months

that afternoon when the sandscape

melted in waves of grainy lava phasing

see Les Darcy at Balmoral, see how

Red and Gold Sunset by Whistler was

a mirror unto the slides of diagnostic

hemoglobin observed in the seaside

maternity hospital, see the young cad

in Woolworths sizing up The Fighter

and being egged on by mates and and

wham he receives The Fighter in his

toffee toned raincoat with enough full

physical force to turn the contenders

muscle tendons into yeast, crushed ye

entropically into the bakery shelves,

thy mass now the bread of the universe

that The Failure would later say must

be broken off and shared unto itself like

trees too far gone with sending signals

of biological risk to one another so now

all dialogue is via transplanted limbs.

Beyond the sealed lid of the world The

Fighter took his fourth space tourist jaunt

last week so the next trip is half price. As

Presley sang in Clambake, look for the

brightest lights in town to see the abyss

embrace its gown, as Bernard sang on

occasion of the first heart transplant, the

original has gone missing but I've a spare.

When The Fighter was oh at age young

people are when they start manipulating

subterranean engines jaunt aire in shafts

of choral resonance, was acutely aware

whilst toting a wooden staff that up there

beyond the mostly sealed lid, in waiting,

dressed in magnesium white, a weapon

with his name on it, aimed at him, always.

Call it fate call it Word he knows they get

one shot at him and he one back at them,

from A to B parabola to C, shoot and see,

fill your gold shoes with funerals and let

it be, remind me whom history will erase

time after time with multi pass overwrites.

According to The Failure, The Fighter is

quote all that, he is unbloodytouchable.

But if this is the case then why the loss

in the ring on the beach the other arvo,

not within mirror view for him this year

living on earth seaside with Agua Viva,

in their recording studio van producing

dub dancehall variations with casiotone

and echo stompbox, transmitted arterial

through city veins by a dish on the roof.

He stumbled up to them one heatstroke

afternoon beachscape dripping against

pedestrian skyline, The Fighter singing

in this lowing guttural mumble vibe that

just seemed to work, we found the bass

thus spake the orphan bandmates, but

why you here, go home be a family man,

The Fighter more like The Volaverunt eh,

we hear your wife is calientes, we saw a

print that Baudelaire implored his friend

to buy from Goya’s son, Duchess of Alba,

supersize purple bow on waist, necklace,

big copper bell seated immensely in her

ketchup hair, star salted peregrine eyes,

and you were there too, shaggy whiskers,

damaged teeth sunk in parish beachballs.