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[Olaf]

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Football started with the head of some bastard
thief, governor or priest kicked around
by squads of angry muscle.
The skull is left wing, right wing, mid field, centre.
Blood and teeth and hair spray like a Catherine wheel.
'Look, the tongue's hanging out, he's mocking us.'

'Man on!' One bastard shouts. 'Up the left wing, Dante!'
Dante punts it full pelt, leg sprung like a lock;
but before he can send it flying it bursts
sending out bright colours like a piñata
grass streaked with a flash blood red and bone white.

A new skull rolls on. A certain economist.
No shortage of heads. Body bags of sports bags.
Prisons full of backup Mitres. Cities full with
craniums full of air and dead ambitions, ripe   
skulls for a stadium of Roman eyes.

We could be here for ever kicking heads in
until finally, the stadium has beheaded
its last head, vultures priming in the turrets
a new nation of skulls starts to work out
the fixtures for their coming season.

The voice screams through the air
a last dying baritone of fear as it soars,
punching into the fist of a clean boot then net.
Half-time: the field is a blood plasma,
a shock of teeth/tonsil, porridges of violet brain ooze.
Armies cheer. The answers hits the net. Armies roar.
No sign of a winner. No winner needed. Everyone comes to lose.




*First sprawling draft. I love farce.  

*Edits made, thanks to the man edge.

[Edgewise]

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I thought this excellent.  Gets at the primordial origins of the game with a nice satirical twist.  Some observations and so on.

Football started with the head of an enemy
Some bastard thief "bastard thief governer" or "bastard thief, governer"? governer or priest Dig the rhythm
kicked about by squads of angry muscle.  Cool.

'Look, his tongue's sticking out, he's mocking us.' The start of any riot.
Guillotined by popular demand, like a ball of sun What do you mean by ball of sun?  I am having trouble matching the image with the metaphor.
his head is struck left wing, right wing comma mid field, centre.
Blood and teeth and hair spraying out like a Cathrine wheel.

'Man on!' One bastard shouts. 'Up the left wing, Dante!'
Dante punts it full pelt, leg sprung like a lock;  Awesome.
but before he could send it bird flying down the park What does "bird" add to this line?
the skull obliterated like a pinata, sending bright clours colors
skid marking along the grass - a picasso jet of red paint.

Still no shortage of heads here. Prisons full of Mitres.
Prisons seething with diretionless burstable brains.  "directionless"
Skulls of breakable bone for a stadium of Roman eyes.
Heads like beach balls, volleyed down centre,
some times the head is in mid scream as soars
a licks a bastards clean boot.  Favorite stanza.

By half-time the field is strewn with bloodied skulls,
teeth and tonsils, porridges of brain brain matter,
a pukish green cerebral ooze like scrambled egg.

The armies cheer. They glory. They feast.
It's a draw 10-10. No sign of a winner.
No winner needed. Everyone comes to lose.  Favorite line.
We could be here for eternity, kicking heads in.
Kicking the debris of denegrates degenerates, until finally,
the stadium is empty, no not a soul is left,
expect a few seagulls fighting over a mince pie.
And a nation of skulls waiting for next season.  Everybody is a participant.  No skull is safe. 


*First sprawling draft. I love farce. 
   

I love farce also, whether poem or game.
 

[Olaf]

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Thanks for the consideration.

I'll incorporate your changes.

Thanks for the time and the joy and the laugh.