"pugilist" poems
Setting off a rollicking charge… like a waiting rocket to countdown
Solo pugilist in the ring… lancing darts at butterflies in cloistered air
10…. 9…. 8….
Boxed in from all sides… whichever way turning… meets unsettling walls
Notes unseen and unheard… magic windows stripped away… acrylic drips dry
7…. 6….. 5….
Tap runs on… letting of foundation-blood…no fear nor fret… yet exacts converse
Gentle persuasion to reach shores… hard credence yet so true… all in good time
4…. 3…. 2….
One vision
Two hearts
Three kisses..
Forever :)
No countdown needed....ever
Count to one…only
and breathe...
It’s all ok
all in good time...
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
A huge centipede crawls across the floor
He is black
and his legs are orange.
He is enormous
12 inches
Maybe more
And he rears back and attacks the feet of the passers-by
And they smile and reach down and pat him.
They smile.
And he bites their hands.
Their hands swell up around the two deep punctures,
which are swollen up over, the only sign left being two tiny oozing wrinkles.
The purple hands are polka dotted with yellow and dying veins.
They admire the plethora of color that is now their hand.
From the pain they lust for more and more pain and more and more pain.
They rise from their overstuffed red sofas to the middle of the floor and trade blows.
A girl of twenty with black curly locks falls to the ground with a wet thud
and summons the centipede who bites her in the cheek, piercing the paper thin flesh.
He gets a strong hold on her face and drags her across the floor.
She giggles in delight!
The centipede rips her limb from limb and
She giggles in delight!
Another wet thud.
She had a puffy purple companion in a moment as the centipede drags to her a young man of twenty-one.
Fate!
Their lips meet
and their saliva, thick and curdled mixes.
They giggle in delight!
As the centipede rips them limb from limb.
You look like you're losing weight!
The centipede is finding it.
He eats all but their skulls,
shining in a thin layer of blood,
picked clean of flesh
Locked in a sweet embrace of phantom lips
Until a pugilist twitches his leg in an awkward defensive maneuver and sends the girl's skull spinning across the floor
until it hits against a white wall with a crack
and it splits.
Party-goers begin to trip over the centipede.
And with every wet thud on the floor
another skull is left to be an obstacle for fluid movement.
The centipede has to coil up to be able to fit in the room.
And soon there is one pugilist left
And he scratches the centipede's shiny black metallic and spackled red back with a mangled mass of knuckle
and yellow poisoned veins.
The centipede rears back
But falls back on itself out of its own sheer weight
and its back snaps,
spraying the finalist with a mix of entrails of bug and human kind.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 9:45 PM UTC
Symbolize no lies and the flip side of white like Anubis
From noobin' to getting a new *****
No birth on earth, not lucid
Off my knees with no assist
**** a trip never lit and still lifted
Used to quit for a bit, but the G too loud I listened
**** boys out my vision
Questioned exsistence, doubts had no limit
2 to run a business
1 of those disposed the closed
Honor roll for being on the role, never missed like a ***
Wished to be what I seemed to be on the screen; so vivid
Regretting lies in this life all the time now I'm fine being just David
Universe seems different
BS all around got me bent
Dead bird, you no fly
Old ***** no reply
Childish, you still whine
You full of it, like a cyst
Cat killa, ask yo sis
Smooth talk, **** that swiss
Made my way without an *** kiss
Money off my wishlist
Summer coming like my ****
Trill kicks, gold wrists, yeah all thrift
Never trust those slick lips
Better off a pugilist
Swollen fist, not a pacifist
No front, my diction real ****
Get you ****** with no diss
Limp **** still leave her lispin'......I'm not even playing
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
The pugilist who
lost the fight,
Took his own life
Doesn’t seem right.
Fighting depression
Round after round
Hitting the canvas
With unerringly sound.
There’s no more bells
No more punches to give
Inside the ring of ropes
Where he once lived.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 5:19 PM UTC
I
Winter's fog swirling,
settling gently on the peak.
Should I,
or should I not charge the beast?
Oh, but to climb,
that serpentine road
through this thick mystical Merlinesque brume.
II
I abandon all reasoning
and don my armor
to do battle with the slithering Wyvern,
"The Pinnacle".
My silver Steed awaits me.
And in almost Ninja attire,
helmet placed,
cleats clicked and locked into pedals,
I am one with my ride.
III
Mist now's upon me.
Mist and bone cold.
I trek upward to the proving ground.
Drifting,
as always, into a trance,
a meditation,
ignoring pain as a pugilist.
Shut up legs, I say.
Shut up and give me one more day.
Prompt me not
that I am the aged Warrior,
for with every cadence I am reminded
of my fleeting days.
IV
I crawl upon the spine of the dragon,
out of my saddle and with the fullness of might,
break loose from the fetters of the mundane,
habitual world below these clouds.
V
Mist to rain,
rain to ice.
Diamond hard shards of sleet
bounce off my helmet,
peppering this snaking path towards heaven.
Crystalline obstacles
to navigate on my surly descent.
VI
I have owned this battle before you know?
Many times past.
But like a moment,
it can't be possessed.
Still this right of passage I must pursue
over and over and over
til I am no more
and my steed has been pawned.
VII
So quiet now
high above the clouds,
so alone,
so away from the world.
What solace.
Oh, to die here.
To fall and lay, looking up at these leafless trees,
on this gray Winter's day.
And to witness my last peacefilled thought.
VIII
But not today.
No, not today
for I am near the precipice.
I step up the pace and route the enemy
and laugh in deaths face.
One more stroke, and I gut the beast.
One more turn and I am exultant.
Oh Rapture,
Oh Felicity.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
in the half light
of the whole day; dozing
where the marsh plods clottly
but the pond scums slowly.
you can spare no moral
when your tall tale's
growing.
but you sift slop oddly
through the rot god's
nothing.
II
Fugue ahead. Caution.
III
On thin air, thick tongues and brick lungs scrum
for balloons and ruinous truth, teething batter and gum-shoes
attuned to less violence, but inviolate, if only for the fist
in the violets. the pugilist in the plums. Or maybe -
the cancerous rhinoceros
in the plasticity
of a knows job
goblin.
you tell me.
no problem.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
i'm unwinding my head
on
honey moon belly
******* carnivorous lozenges
falling in love with glazed
eye ball devils
hypnotic stare
destination
a tunnel of fiendish odysseys
blood drooling eel
vomits gush white
daddy long leg threads
in honeys wet cage
to wither
writhing spit hot
in fat muscle and bone
headless
head first
like a mindless falcon
after scattered mice
i feel her teeth tearing
syringes of ecstasy
ransacking swollen motion spirals
and ***** like bronz buckaroos
at a fancy pool party
crimson *** macabre
****** roast bon bon fire
licking her lump of desire
a rousing boogyman sermon
speaks in incinerating tongues
swallowing a hideous parfait
**** growl
girl squat
**** ****
mint julip throat
choke symphony
abducting lascivious pollinated gulps
take me in like reckless bull sap
through your red
dada warp land
pit of the brain
undulant flesh landscape
of shapeless ovule spume
mouthing night blows
Incised flagellation's
devour buffet spread maiden derelict
arched and trembling
drunk and drugged
like a buttermilk sky
groaning hysterical
in feral muck stained beds
of puce and slime ochre pigments
stunned umbra
a famished
deep veined jutting peninsula
longing for princess ***** dynasties
with vast thighs radiating inferno hearths
and rolling hill **** hieroglyphics
decipher rug pugilist lap songs
my goddess i long for your
bruised fruit
crawling like the dead of night
on pitch vanta shadows
where love becomes a savage
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
KING OF THE BOXING RING*
Muhammad Ali, the renowned boxing star,
Thrilled the world with his terrific fights;
Fearsome moves, nimble feet and fiery fists,
Memorable in his own well-known words,
Could "float like a butterfly and sting like a bee",
Cruhed his mighty rivals with awesome ease.
Honoured and loved as a great humanist,
More than titles, he valued respect and equality
And fought against racism and injustice.
Stripped of his title and thrown into jail,
Bravely opposed the Vietnam war,
Refused to join the army and drop bombs
On unknown people who were not his foes.
When ill-treated for the colour of his skin,
Threw his Olympic medal into the Ohio stream,
Roused the conscience of his fellowmen.
Ali, the great pugilist, king of the boxing ring,
Shines in the galaxy with Mandela and Dr. King.
*********. M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
Words washed over me:
past the point of no return,
catching clarity at the elbow.
Arms limp at my sides,
a pugilist after 8 rounds with Ali,
suddenly realizing
he had been conserving his energy
while I hurled hay-makers
at uplifted gloves,
none of my hate hit home.
She spoke the knock-out blow
or, the ghost of her voice...
"You have to admit to yourself
that ******** a stranger's
the only way you can hide anymore."
You only start listening
after exhausting your arsenal.
The void of
my mouth
swallowed her sentiments.
I took up the
empty husk of her heart
to make it my home,
just to have a memento--
holding on to anything.
On the ropes,
disoriented,
skipping chapters to
take in the denouement
only to forget the characters' names.
But I couldn't ignore how
she closed the door;
Gently-
not a slam
screaming passion, energy.
No.
The door and jamb met resignedly--
children who can no longer play with one another.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC
We are all born slaves
It is only through deprivation and humiliation, that leads to our status in life
Like the pugilist, fighting his corner, standing toe to toe, staring his adversary
in the eyes, he is no less brave than the soldier fighting his corner, firing missiles
into a distant dark bloodied night.
No matter how magnanimous they try to be , with defeat comes humiliation,
Both brave, both soldiers, both slaves.
Peace comes through deprivation, which leads to violence, through which comes
Peace.. Eventually, sometimes fragile, sometimes eternal, for those who do not make it
back home, slaves to a belief.
Jun 17, 2011
Jun 17, 2011 at 9:18 AM UTC
In an aside at the pub the other day,
I commented that the hockey player
Looked like a French-Canadian.
I was called a racist for that.
(but he did)
While watching some Miss Pageant
With her the other night,
I commented that all the women
Are beautiful enough to be crowned.
Now I'm a sexist.
(they were gorgeous)
For the sake of argument, I am a religionist.
I'm against Jihads, but I'm not Jihadist.
I don't go goo goo over babies,
So I suspect someone will say I'm an infantist.
She texted, saying she wants to fix the fight.
Well, I am a pugilist,
And I know when the fight's been fixed.
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Struggling against a swift current eventually you give in
Realizing you are simply a man out of time
Just an auger boring forward in a gyre forever turning
Yet moving nowhere
In a place where you are no longer living nor dead
Neither past nor present meaningful nor meaningless
You just are frozen in time and space
Where there are no awe-inspiring last words
No enlightenment
No decree stating what your impact on this reality has been
It is just you dwindling until there’s no more fight left
The pugilist in your soul concedes
The lost souls of those lost before you
Coaxing you to justly give in and concede
The final battle has been fought and scripted long before conception
The burning wick sputters and suffocates rhythmically until it flickers
No more
All Uniqueness begets soon insignificance
And like the swimmer in the mists of the midnight sea
You disappear
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
Me in the blue.
Violent, shirtless pugilist, wearing leather shoes.
Dancing on the canvass and pities the fools with no reflections.
Muscle and mind synchronized to face the strength of his weakness, weakness to his strength.
The only one who understands the sacrifice, training and pain.
Timeless crucial ignorance.
A dance of true love if there ever was one of pure violence.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
What will happen when the fight fixing champion pugilist Falls to the ****** wearing chief? Teeth grinding and gnashing of the utmost. Hero decay in the Form of various half lifes. Truths become more powerful and evil wears like blue jean material. God has lost all rounds but won the fight.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
Unkind to himself
and
to his glory
is
a pugilist who
is
kind to his adversary
in
the boxing ring.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 9:28 PM UTC
With his upper-cut
released;
she lieth
abed,
sighing out.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
I'll kiss your bruises and earn your blood
Depraved as we are, this is love
For my ills, I will take nothing in return
Mistress, mistress, you will be my weakness;
The very tantalizing death of me
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 3:03 PM UTC
Most people lead with the jab
But his 1-2 punch was dactylic
The majority of his poems are haymakers
Homogenous mixtures of slurred speech
That rarely connexts
His footwork is nothing special
He still finds the canvas too springy
He's distracted by blinking
Graceless graphite paws
Taking granite swings
Skipping chips of deadweight loss
Embedded in the stream of ink
Now dripping from his brow
The fighters looking up
And the ref is counting down
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC