More pricks than kicks

Fighters fight and actors act and marketeers market as onlookers look on and watch the spectacle, and see and say and tweet and talk and marvel at the show, in which the marketeers are acting as fighters fuelled by coins and lines and feral coordinates of a Crumlin compass pointed to pomp, punch, pose and shimmy round in a frenzy of fanatic loyalty and bombast, ‘my testosterone’s stronger than your testosterone‘ iconoclastic parlance, as said fighter cum actor cum marketeer twirls his slight frame in the windless basement of a Brooklyn building, dancing through the air to no apparent tune other than the thump of blood in his chemicaled brain and the solo voice of a cry for attention mocking the onlookers who look on and see fighters fight and actors act and marketeers market, all the while he’s sashaying towards a railing that is a prop perhaps, or a balance maybe, but turns out to be a missile cast by the notoriously high arms of the one who leads his pack of rats into attack, squealing and biting and gnawing at anything in their way, just as hungry rodents chew the flesh of man or boy, sinew by sinew, and tissue by tissue, until their greedy mouths leak venom and entrails; fighters fight and actors act and marketeers market and rats breed and play way down in basements and sewers.