wind in my face
doing this since
I was half my age
sweat on my forehead
warmth from the helmet

moving fast
while
passion lasts
going up
going down

massage under my feet
cause the beton can't beat
all off the speed

make me small
so I won't fall
my knees low
wheels will grow

rollerblades
inline skates
rolling shoes

call them all what you want
make another brand
I still stand

Sunday, the lads are on the pitch
they were ****** the night before
the other side look just as bad
not sure any are fit to score

The whistles blown, the ball is kicked
three players chase concentration on their faces
The keepers are leaning on goalposts
and seventeen are tying their laces

Number nine is running at goal
He must score, it's in the bag
the ball soars past the goalie
and hits the corner flag

By the half time wistle
there was one red card and four yellow
players were crawling off the pitch
the supporters were less than mellow

The full time score was a one all draw
the Ref blew for full time
the players headed for the bar
Twenty one pints and a lager and lime

Match clebrations went on for hours
though neither side had won
next Sunday they would play again
only to draw again, one, one

Show a little finesse, place a bet.
You’re just in time for the game, get some skin, the fix is in.

What’s more American than cashing in?
The real winners do, and now that could be you.

With suckers out there waiting, scamming is as easy as creating
an NFT, bitcoin, an online bet or a romance baiting.

You’ll be a witness, as the wise guys step in, for the NFL it’s a win-win
You get the excitement you need and the real playas get the proceeds.

Come on, Mr slick ricky, you know you’ve got to be bold to win gold
winners double-down, they never fold—the thrill never gets old.

The winners will add your measly bucks to their ***.
Let's admit, all you’ve got, isn’t a lot - it wouldn’t, say, fuel a yacht.

So, step up, place your bets, you’re in the digital front row all the time,
don’t be lame, be part of the game, it’s greasy, ******, organized crime.
.
.
A song for this:
Vicious Games by Yello
The Game of Love (feat. Michelle Branch) [Main/Radio Mix] by Santana

sports kit - generic hair
i turn seven times in twenty minutes
to check if you're still there
we watch the play
you from outside
me from the back row
are you missing out on training?
you're alone and you must be cold
plastic shorts plastic shirt
standing in an alcove
where god isn't watching
hands pressed flush against cool glass
tall window
you look so small
hiding like a kid
wouldn't you rather be annihilating yourself on the court?
cold hands - dark window - unspecific sport
unspecific boy
has anyone else noticed you?
have you noticed me looking?
forgive me for assuming, but
i hope someday you allow yourself to come inside
there's a free seat next to me

The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.

On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.

Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidedly symbolistic manner of preparation in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.

A sporting life—
For the bloodsport.
We enjoyed sharpening our knives and loading our guns on the languid savannah plains.

For the thrill of the hunt—
The bloodsport—
Our sweat would drip onto the carcass,
Mixing with the open veins.

We enjoyed the ****,
Displaying the beast's head as we covered ourselves in its blood,
Congregating for the love of the open veins.

******* preserved the bones,
And these hunts lived long in our memory as symbols of our glory;
Symbols of the beast's pain.