Oh Oh Byron

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.'