A soul hung, up as 'twere, in chains

Of nerves and arteries and veins …

– Andrew Marvell
Bout after bout I fight my body

over who will rule us, me or

her, and round after round sees

me thrown down, knocked out.
Physically she has the upper

fist, the flesh and blood that

gets bums on seats, while my

defence is simply the idea.
She is the temple and I am

the tenant, held like a hermit

in a strange arrangement with

the world, against my will.
Yes, I am the snail and she is

the shell and she is for sale

for giving me hell every time

she has climbed on my back.
As the audience taunts and the

bell goes again, I see certain

stars yet staunchly believe

that spiritually I cannot lose.
Life after life I fight my body

over who is the purer, me or

her and death after death we

return to the same new debate.