Disjecta Membra

why i should write more poetry; or perhaps why I should delete it

It began here last November,

a week before my Dublin bout;

but which day i can’t remember,

only a barrel spitting blue embers.

Of that i have no doubt

for one flew astray,

as if predestined for me

by some almighty glory,

landing on my black jeans,

only arriving that day

form Asos Marketplace.

The remnants of a bonfire

marred the ground

a royal brown,

like corroded copper.

It was just after Halloween;

it’s aura held aloft by the bitter air,

mixed with a scent of stale Amber Leaf.

I lost the fight, of course.

I was too soft on him;

he saw my kick a mile-off;

“he only skinned the win”;

“you’ll get it next time.

Believe in yourself; you can do it.”

No one, in any case, came to see it.