They fought as if for the last snow,
With the flails of bloody-eyed fists.
They fought with the malice of cripples
Calculatedly, drunk and cruel.
They fought with knives and glass,
Trampled to the sensation of skin.
They crumbled, like chalk, the grin of teeth,
Kneaded into dough the burst mugs
of theirs. And they expounded with blood a curse
heavy, like cast-iron sledgehammers.
And their blind malice, the fuel oil smoke
swirled and in a herd gone mad
was their limit, a screaming point,
accidentally reaching the infancy of the pulse.
Agony sprinkled with boiling water the fall of the body
Carried away into horror...
*** ***
Fight
© Copyright: Сергей Муценко Избранное, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125090602956
Свидетельство о публикации №125090602956
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