James Bond is fighting with Byron. Byron
licensed to slice lines from flesh.
There is an electric jangle of guitar & squeals
of rising high-pitch trumpets. Byron pulls,
slickly, a double-edged blade
from deep within his jacket's velvet vast.
James Bond is dodging Byron's thrust.
The whistle of Byron's bullet-gaze burns
Bond's ear; leaves
a red nick that richly drips
onto the night of his dark suit & the light blue
point of his sharp shirt-collar. Byron slips
from his frilly cuff the 9 of hearts: plays
his Dark Lady's calling card; places
these three red threes into Bond's white palm.
Now Bond&Byron're embraced:
as a mad double mass of bad knowledge;
Byron's blade dangerously close
to Bond's voice-box; close to the cold
pulse in the suave spy's soft throat.
Byron kisses James slowly on the lips; bites
like a woman intoxicated on love
& shaken with a dash of hate.
'So, Mister Bond,' says Byron with a voice
like lightening & silence, 'finally
it seems we
do & we don't
get to meet.'