She happily slapped me on the cheek
- with my own glove on loan (out of all
the gloves I'd given her the pair with
bitten ends, the tips of finger bare) -
and said "Duel, at sundown."

I obliged, replied by sticking out my chest.

Come two o' clock I wasn't ready -
my sword, once sharp, stood dull and blunt,
lying on the coffee table impotent.

Come four, I'd beaten on both edges
with some flint found in the back garden.

Come six I was to be in the park,
ready-drawn and ready to die.

Death; I'd always thought that dying
would be like poetry, an art. Not
some sloppy mess of guts and blood,
split things spilling into wet mud.

I'd always imagined the picturesque;
the red bath or wound oozing heroic pus,
a clapping crowd circled around my corpse.

Come six-thirty we'd played out a stalemate;
both drenched in fleshy sweat and gore,
alive and kicking with legs hanging, flapping
from fraying skin-strings close to snapping.

Dying was finished; we were mere immortals,
our words saying that we played in fits of
stabs and slashes, ashes to blood,

when in reality we were burning the
paper to ashes, with the ashes still good.
There's something about your pieces that feels really, um, british. Maybe it's the quirkness a lot of them have. Anyways, I enjoyed reading this piece. Nice tone and great imagery. It felt like a Monty Python movie directed by Quentin Tarantino. Anyways, the only real complaint I have is the way some words are arranged. For example, I think the last line of the second stanza should read, "lying impotent on the coffee table." and the seond to last line of the first stanza, "bitten ends, and fingertips bare". Anyways, nice job, man.

Crit mine please.
The Fear of Being Spit On
Not really, no. Though I can see how one got this view.

Thanks Broseph. Will hit you up soonish.