29 June 2014

Spunk

Spunk

“ma name is Spunk”

he’d announce

in a voice full of

ground down

Buckfast bottles

“an ah’m the fuckin’ man”

he had a face

made of minced beef

which framed a broad reptilian smile

his head belonged on Easter Island

one great neckless slab of stone

balanced on mountainous shoulders

his hands were great steam shovels

used for the early dig

the knockout blow

Spunk dealt in hard times

for hard cash

with broken bones

and lost teeth

he’d taken many second prizes

but that was long ago

he’d since become selective

in who he fought

and what he fought them for

he did his best to live up

to the role his face had carved for him

he was coarse and aggressive

he was mean and repulsive

he was that big bad fish

in a little pond

the local nightmare

the hard man

who thought himself a king

but I saw him cry

when she left and broke his heart

he’d tried to make her stay

the only way he knew how

he used too much force

and killed her love that night

something in him died too

he shrank as a man

to a shadow of the beast

he once was

no-one fears him now

he’s just another wino

hanging around the off licence

an old punch drunk fighter

taking a standing count

one more blow landed

will knock him down and out

.

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