i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.

i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,


-

spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows  
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.

i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.


--

they are coming, the surgeons, you say.

they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****,
to clean, to find, to ****, to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to ****, to ****, to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****,

to make me sick.


---

i may as well be sick.  


----

i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.


silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.


-----

i was the faire semblant and  
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.


euthanise me, i want
your ugly face




------

to be the last ugly face i see.