and the slow circle closed in and punches ripped from the shadow into the antibodies of me and you just standing there like old friends with nothing else to do but lose our keys, get flu, keel over and die (if it doesn’t kill you it makes you stronger if it doesn’t make you stronger it kills you).

and we’re antiboxers and we’re winning and training and the emails are rushed through customs so we clear out our corners, fuck up our trainers, buckle up, tune out, turn to one another and we kiss.

and we’re stubborn like cold mornings that don’t want no sun on their backs don’t want to rise don’t want the smiles to break into giggles bent backwards don’t want the conversation to cascade through the bleeding legs of a piano as it struggles through the door leading to temptation, illumination and petrol stations.

and we’re antiboxers and we’re winning and training and the emails are rushed through customs so we clear out our corners, fuck up our trainers, buckle up, tune out, turn to one another and we kiss.

and I’m sitting back backresting on the edge of the paraffin-spun speedtrap of living and stuff and I’m amazed at how you go through this boredom and darkblue-ness of another night glowing as far as you go with armsful of air and wood for the fire at the bottom of the pass where your brakelights trail vein-like in the heartland (home is where the head is, head is where you lay your heart) ... home is where the head is ... turn to one another and we kiss.

and you’re my pigeon in the flood ransacked with humour riddled with nothing but blood and beauty as it rips through my heart young but weathered old but not beaten and I step forward into the clear cool pool of your eyes blue to the touch fearless to the sun bouncing off the ropes of this world is the antiboxer and me.

and we’re antiboxers and we’re winning and training and the emails are rushed through customs so we clear out our corners, fuck up our trainers, buckle up, tune out, turn to one another and we kiss.