Thursday, September 10, 2009

Post Two-Hundred and Five.


A steady hand of surgical precision
Slice and dice, and a flick of the wrist
One fell swoop; a cut after another
Blood spatter leads to beautiful patterns
Music plays; a classical number
Find myself lost in a hypnotic fashion
Movements keep time with the tempo
All’s revealed; Showtime now
Scalpel down; wipe the forehead
Maniacal grin and bloodlust eyes
I reach in, hand bare
Wrist disappears with the
Sloshing of fluids and the
Squish of entrails