Boris Spassky On A Documentary I Watched On Youtube That Was On Bobby Fischer Poem by j. saca

Though I immersed myself in the Fischer
Mystique I related more with this barren

-haired Russian named Boris Spassky,
exiled from his homeland, living in Paris,

a gifted son with a poem for a name.
Hepatitis eyes, stale vodka from a Lincoln

log I shat on the belfry. The lavatory
invites me for tea & crumpets as soothing

music plays, I try & put my thoughts on the
Cold War into this poem. Spassky, another

peon, Fischer, knew too much. None mirror
the war directly but the realization one may

have if thinking the issue closely can reward
one with a new understanding on the issue. I

never understood the appeal of chess but I do
get the parallels between it and war.