by DK Weber


The bell rings, and the mammoth body
surrounding the squared circle speaks
the names of two behemoths, titans
who chew their chants like cud. You
join in and find the comfort in carnage.
Raucous revelry is an authentic high.

Tonight, you seek to enjoy the high
flyers and piledrivers, to watch bodies
crash to the mat in the key of carnage.
Then, as he always does, the devil speaks:
You know none of this is real, don’t you?
Tossed into a corner, the muscles tighten

and await the ham hock hands of a titan.
Reality hits hard, cares not, and lifts high
your fancy like a prized fish. Slams it down. You
deem your dreams worn. Their broken body
lies limp as a feckless jobber. Reality speaks,
reprimands this heap of lost hope. All is carnage.

How can a fantasy survive such carnage?
Truth is a chokehold, a python who tightens
around its windpipe. Tap out to this pique.
Let the light fade. Feel the darkness high-
jack the vacated lands inside your body.
Or, if ignorance is bliss, let it claim you

like the second wind in heroes. Use it to imbue
bravery. Hope is respect for everyday carnage.
It’s the breath inside you. Inhale. Sing the body
eternal. Exhale. Loosen the bonds that tighten
behind your eyes. Dreaming is an organic high.
When you hulk out and let it lift you, it speaks

of a champion in the making, and it speaks
through the heart found blooming inside you.
The nectar in being broken sweetens the high
of your babyface comeback amid the carnage.
Grab hold the devil’s tongue, twist it tight, and
make him submit. Victory is control over body

and mind. When they speak together, they embody
the dreams of titans. The end of the battle finds you
standing among the carnage, your hand raised high.