Jiu-Jitsu

It is truly a weird sensation;
That collar gripping the neck
As if some albino anaconda
Had torn from its skin to coil
And tighten upon you.
And when the dark embrace
Of locked wrists dim the lights,
Those few seconds before the end
Are the most enticing.
 
The roll of joints
Unfriending from hinge
Like the walk of a jaguar,
Preying on limbs
Clamping down with
The fiercest of bites.
Each individual roll is a flight
Away to Japan or off
To the dense Brazilian forest
And the jaws of the beast.
 
Fingers snap at your belt,
Piranhas in their pursuit
Of any free meal as you
Camber through the river
Of mats and a deluge of sweat.
Men with robes, who seem as monks,
Descend with unhinged rage
And each tap is the lonesome sound
Of an honourable seppuku.
 
The aftermath of feeding beasts
Leaves swollen egos flat.
And the pain of defeat
Is mirrored only by the battered
Flesh and strangled neck.
All things then are healed by time,
Memories survive longer than men.
Each try brings clarity,
As if water in a well,
Rising for an unquenchable thirst.
 
The blooming grace
Of Japan’s blossom
Molten with the fires of
Tempered Celtic steel
And sewn with the rhythm and beauty
Of Brazil’s dancing devils.
Each simple movement is a millennium
Old note in a symphony of arts
That has finished in melodic perfection.
 
And that weird sensation lingers.
Calming the beast and settling the waters.
The rumble of movement and the shear fear
Now more quickly calls a man to prayer.
That which was once lost becomes found
And music forms from unintelligible sound.
Each bruise becomes a jewel on blemished skin
And each loss is now a chance to win.
As if drifting like flowers in that blossom tree
The wind of this art makes one fly and be free.