Fight Club

Fight Club

In the dim back‑room of a weather‑beaten pub,
the floor is a scar‑topped canvas of dust and old varnish.
Behind the bartender’s window, the city exhales its grey stories,
but inside the lights flicker like a snare of fireworks.

Men in battered denim and skirts of worn work‑wear
clump together, murmuring about the weight of days.
Their faces are maps of grief, of answers left unanswered,
hands that carry the ache of jobs, the ache of unmet dreams.

The bell thuds – a simple metallic tongue –
and the first onslaught is a rush of bodies, elbows flying,
the rhythm of floor and flesh echoing in unsteady chorus.
No referee, no officials, just a silent pact:
fight until the heart decides surrender is no longer an option.

Each blow tells a story that the city refuses to read,
silk‑coated anger, raw, unfiltered, igniting the night.
There is no glory; there is only a fleeting proof
of axes in the lining of a pair of gauntleted hands.

Grit is the currency, respect the tax,
and every punch is a vote against a hidden oppression.
Behind the sweat‑slick smears and fractured pride
the echoes of a quieter struggle: the struggle that is no less real because it is fought in secret.

When the bell clicks again, the men pause, gather breath,
and their eyes meet – a soft acknowledgment of belonging,
if only for a moment, in the low‑light swirl of bodies,
and the gentleman's word: "Cheers to the old fight club."