The Theme From Rocky

I bet you think my failure came easy –
that it just landed in my hands
like a baby tossed from a burning building.
But I worked for it.
I trained.
Years on a self-loathing treadmill
long evenings using my own thick skull
as a punchbag –
idiot!
idiot!
– trying to beat some sense into a bone idle brain.

This ossified cavity
is an arena of smashed dreams.
Glove up, the voices say,
get your game face on,
give it some Rocky,
come wail on your failures.
So I release the underdogs,
mug for the cable cameras,
start that long march to the ring that sees me
kicking through drifts of unused breadmakers,
fondue sets, slack chubby puppets
like a stranger’s beautiful kids,
half-finished Airfix kits, each wingless spitfire
a crippled swan,
past new and better cars
rusting hollow as Yorrick’s skull,
all the flats I’ll never afford,
shelf after shelf of unwon industry awards,
till I’m sh- sh-
showboating beneath a slow confetti of aborted degrees,
unbought plane tickets,
unwritten love letters, gym receipts.

Assembled friends,
this vast bonce is no less than
an ambition abattoir,
a butcher’s block for
all my heart’s idiot offspring.
I didn’t try hard enough;
this is why they had to die,
every dream,
from the great Great British novel –
a wry, melancholic fable
about a man with one giant eye –
to a fully alphabetised CD collection.

Real failure takes commitment,
shoulder to the boulder,
broken nose to the grindstone,
last legs staggering down that Rocky road
to the squared circle –
but martyrdom is self-defeating.
Are you beaten cos you walk away
or cos you keep showing up
for a beating?

Facing your fears on that murderous dancefloor
Flashbulbs ignite with each shot to the abs
Blood in your ears drowning out every crowd roar
Tap up those veins cos it’s time for your jabs
Move like a butterfly, shoot like Apollo,
Weather them hurting bombs tough as cold concrete,
Saved by the bell but your creed’s ringing hollow
The stick and move mantra repeats with each heartbeat
Bleak Philly mornings spent pounding cool carcasses
Wet ribs protrude like a half-submerged galleon
Beating meat can’t prepare you for how hard this is –
He ain’t a dead cow, and you ain’t no stallion
Screw this one up you’ll be back selling ice cream
Greaseballs like you are a snap to replace
Everyone knows the American Dream
Requires being repeatedly punched in the face

Cos it’s one for the money, it’s two for the money,
It’s nine for the money, it’s ten.
It’s swing when you’re winning
It’s swing when you’re not
And it’s get up
Again
And again
And again

Go down like Christ to the old cheek, cheek, glassjaw
The noble man bleeds for the things that he loves
Hang by the phone for when happiness rings
But it’s hard to pick up when you’re still wearing gloves.