The red shirt is torn,
an eyelash ****
your skin exposed
but no blood.
You were born for this.
I dig in my silver weapon,
sever your synapses.
With each new cut
comes a soggy cream sheet
and you sigh and you sigh.
It was inevitable.
Fixed smiles
flop from your spine,
see-saw on the board
and form a wrecked star.
Now just your teeth,
the brown raindrops.
I use my thumb
to tug them out,
dislocated, then gone.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
The red shirt is torn,
an eyelash ****
your skin exposed
but no blood.
You were born for this.
I dig in my silver weapon,
sever your synapses.
With each new cut
comes a soggy cream sheet
and you sigh and you sigh.
It was inevitable.
Fixed smiles
flop from your spine,
see-saw on the board
and form a wrecked star.
Now just your teeth,
the brown raindrops.
I use my thumb
to tug them out,
dislocated, then gone.
Written: October 2013.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time (first draft completed at university), about cutting an apple into segments before removing the pips. May be part of my third-year dissertation.
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