We are too alike, you and I,
like Hitler and
Mecha-Hitler - allied in ideology
yet destined to fight
and believe you me there are those who would
egg us on, slapping coshes or lit sticks of dynamite
into our callused palms, hissing:
'He said you eat bellends on toast. He called your mum
the Blowjob Queen,' into our eager ears.
I don't want that. I know
you don't either. The chanting, sweaty circle,
the Korean bookies with their chalkboards
and prodigious memories. I do not want to have to
stay my hand as a hundred gargoyled spectators yell:
'Kill! Kill! Kill!' Your splintered nose; your pregnant wife,
wracked and anxious, waiting for the big purse.