214 seconds/ Murder In The City

She put my hands in her back pocket and moved to South Africa. I was facing west. The band was shouting but we could still whisper. Everything we said was more important then the music that fed my youth, I no longer needed that food. Held down by the firm grasp of knowing she would probably get drunk and cry somewhere near the bathroom. We dined on insight. We drank from inspiration. I was a fool. Nothing has changed but the name of my age. Its gonna take an army to get me out of this hotel room. Good thing I got one. Baby boy, baby girl.

214 Seconds/ The Boxer

He seemed to swim for miles, flipping and flopping, this way then that. Discarding his limbs from beneath the sheets. Kicking like a fish caught in the shallow boards of a boat, groping in a death spasm below the oars. Sometimes his knees pressed hard against the mattress because they ached. Other times his hands hid beneath his head because they trembled. Most nights were always the same. Most mornings he never awoke because he never really slept. He didn’t regret this fact; actually, he only felt a slight relief that she wasn’t there to see it. All the squirming without her. All the boxing, bloodshed, and strange mattresses.