The Cyclical Nature of Destruction to Self & Others

where one fist is thrown
another will see the knuckles displayed &
with each connection the rage from one
primate to the next comes spiraling downward---
there is a visceral reaction that brings the
onlooker back & if they are not sufficiently
distracted,
the cycle turns in motion like a perpetual machine
wherein the verbal fight in the workplace becomes
steam driven in the car to the pub after work wher
a skirmish ensues over the inability to release
stress through the affection of a sexual partner to be
discovered there,
instead, out into the parking lot,
with muscles thrusting, teeth gnashing &
all the feelings of the day sharpened & honed
right down to the tip of a needle---
where these bolts of distress & ferocity come from,
so buried deep inside, so much of our shared
animal state,
be it whatever way the energy bursting inside needs
to come out,
it will, without permission,
without cessation.

the pounding of another’s face,
the violence brought down like a hammer to a nail,
bashing relentlessly,
sends off lightening inside
erasing all consequences for a moment &
if it doesn’t go away outside,
it can be brought home---
in the illusion of comfortable peace found in the
american gothical bliss,
a maniacal jester laughs to itself
just behind the eyes &
the terror comes again.

this time, between two who once praised each other
in love,
now with tables turned comes the beating,
through only words or physical abuse,
the nature ripens & to any onlookers in the house
(primarily family), the destructor grows.
in destroying those around one, the claim is made
that the self is breaking down as well,
that the chaos in such a world is simply self-replicating,
something that will not die &
instead, will only blossom,
like the eggs of a cockroach spreading out to
create more cockroaches,
when the foot slams down to squish.

so onlooker learns the trade from onlookers
who stepped out one night to paint the town with
beatings & harsh words---
round & round & round the wheel goes &
where it will stop
(one would have to believe that it can in fact stop,
in order to finish this piece with the clichéd greeting
card-ish rhyme to be expected).