in tense

in present
sense is fantasy of all things past
and  all things last just as long as you kick them in secret
this punching bag wants nought more than your filthy fist
pound for pound gloved in aphoristic wit
your evening gown wrapped around it
like bandage on upper cut
step into this shadow box
it’ll perfect fit lined with your gut
dance when you pick
hack where you roll
prowl how you spread buttered virility a wooden knife will do fine just
 break my knuckles on my own
 don’t
 need a bloody hand to carve my bust