Thread: End-Dream (Some strong language)

I used to dream about brawling
in stinking, smoke stained bars,
staffed by Black and Irish ruffians
with a taste for Jewish blood
that would make any Russian proud.

One by one they would step up,
snake eyes flashing with laughter,
poison tongues lashing out of mouths
dripping with cottonmouth foam.

One by one they would step up
and fall on that filth caked floor
because that is where they belonged,
on level with cockroach carapaces,
stale beer, cigar ash and rat shit.

I was a champion for my people
hunched over ledger books and law,
made feeble by centuries of enforced study,
content to be mocked but left alone.

In my dream, I took hits also.

Blood would flow
out of my cracked
and broken nose;
I could taste my tears
mixed with the sweat
which dripped off
bruises on my brow.
Warm salt and iron
inflamed my elation
and lesser instincts
into a frenzy.

I always came to wobbly from medication
to suppress whispers from the dark.

At some point they stopped whispering.

I haven't fought again.