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The style of this is very unconventional, I drew a lot of inspo from Richard Siken's "Crush." I tried to play on repetition and alliteration in some parts while relying on trying to spin a discoordinating visual in others. This is about my struggle with wrestling, and the toll it takes on your body and mind.
in your left hand you have a picture of yourself at your best, weight unmade and work undone. you are laughing and your muscles are hidden behind some adipose tissue and parasympathetic reassurance. your stomach hurts real bad but you ignore it for now. there's time to deal with it.
and in your right is a video of yourself at your better best. your teeth are bared and your muscles move with the fight. your legs are trembling a bit though, and it’s obvious you’d rather be running away. you look taller than you actually are and you look more alive than you feel. i think you look real good, real pale, real sunk in and sharp.
we make a list of pros and cons to distract ourselves: it’s easier, but i’m spoiled; I look better, but i feel worse. each of my shoulders support the arms of a scale and i’m trying to weigh it out, but something grabs my left hand and pulls hard. the information scrambles. i’m lazier and i feel worse. I look better, except for my skull, which is lopsided and probably needs to be checked out.
you want to be good and useless, but you aren’t tough enough to be beautiful. admire me intensely like Wilde would have wanted. no one paints with blood anymore, and if you asked any artist with half a brain and a clean steroid test, they would say no one important ever has.
the only difference between us is time. you wait for your skeleton to exolocate itself. protection against outside forces, softness hidden away within the self. you look so strong and so tough, so sharp and dangerous. i walk on the opposite side of the street but i want to hold your boney little hands in my own.
that’s what makes all the difference. every year, like a late new year’s tradition, you get one big hit to the head. knocks you clean out on the mat, toes numb and vision swimming. change ushers in and suddenly we trade places. i look real good, real pink and swelled up like a medium-well steak. well-rested, well-fed, well-done. you want me so bad you ache. you want to be me so bad you ache.
let my skeleton abandon me, knees weak and arms useless at my side. i'm a lump on the floor; flesh working against flesh to move a body without structure. I am without structure and discipline. I am dionysus. i am eating grapes, drinking wine, turning pirates to dolphins because it pleases me and i am never without pleasure. the wine is sweet and i want something sour to cut it. you are a dolphin in the water and your eyes are dark and empty.
someone is calling your name. there is water in our ears. mat 1. bout 2048. 130 pounds of muscle and adrenaline. let my soft hands surprise my opponent. let my steps be slow and heavy. let my smile be sour and stained red in all the pictures. let this be my best fight yet. let there be no more fighting for tonight.
in your left hand you have a picture of yourself at your best, weight unmade and work undone. you are laughing and your muscles are hidden behind some adipose tissue and parasympathetic reassurance. your stomach hurts real bad but you ignore it for now. there's time to deal with it.
and in your right is a video of yourself at your better best. your teeth are bared and your muscles move with the fight. your legs are trembling a bit though, and it’s obvious you’d rather be running away. you look taller than you actually are and you look more alive than you feel. i think you look real good, real pale, real sunk in and sharp.
we make a list of pros and cons to distract ourselves: it’s easier, but i’m spoiled; I look better, but i feel worse. each of my shoulders support the arms of a scale and i’m trying to weigh it out, but something grabs my left hand and pulls hard. the information scrambles. i’m lazier and i feel worse. I look better, except for my skull, which is lopsided and probably needs to be checked out.
you want to be good and useless, but you aren’t tough enough to be beautiful. admire me intensely like Wilde would have wanted. no one paints with blood anymore, and if you asked any artist with half a brain and a clean steroid test, they would say no one important ever has.
the only difference between us is time. you wait for your skeleton to exolocate itself. protection against outside forces, softness hidden away within the self. you look so strong and so tough, so sharp and dangerous. i walk on the opposite side of the street but i want to hold your boney little hands in my own.
that’s what makes all the difference. every year, like a late new year’s tradition, you get one big hit to the head. knocks you clean out on the mat, toes numb and vision swimming. change ushers in and suddenly we trade places. i look real good, real pink and swelled up like a medium-well steak. well-rested, well-fed, well-done. you want me so bad you ache. you want to be me so bad you ache.
let my skeleton abandon me, knees weak and arms useless at my side. i'm a lump on the floor; flesh working against flesh to move a body without structure. I am without structure and discipline. I am dionysus. i am eating grapes, drinking wine, turning pirates to dolphins because it pleases me and i am never without pleasure. the wine is sweet and i want something sour to cut it. you are a dolphin in the water and your eyes are dark and empty.
someone is calling your name. there is water in our ears. mat 1. bout 2048. 130 pounds of muscle and adrenaline. let my soft hands surprise my opponent. let my steps be slow and heavy. let my smile be sour and stained red in all the pictures. let this be my best fight yet. let there be no more fighting for tonight.