A Love Song to a Razor Blade

There you sit,

Fixed atop the haft,

Penny new,

Fresh and gleaming.

My skin awaits you,

fresh from the bath,

anointed, balmed,

aching for your touch.

The touch that lifts,

separates and surgically

trims me, leaving me

naked, bare to the world

And then we are done.

I cleanse you of me,

forget you,

and put you away.

With apologies to Lord Byron

"We'll Go No More a Raiding"

So, we'll go no more a raiding,
So deep within the Blight,
Though the wife be still as scathing,
And the display still as bright.


For the butt outwears its seat,
And mouse wears out its pad,
And the body must pause to eat,
And you youself smell bad,


Because the night was made for raiding,
And the sun light fills the room,
Yet your wife is still a'raving
It is time to log-off soon.

There was a moment
Where my body just quit
Following the plan.

Cotton-coated vipers told me
I wasn’t the rebel,
No, my blood had that job
My own internal Benedict Arnold

Coldly they told me that
 A phalanx of traitors
Sped through my blood-stream,
White-clad and brutal,
And in every vein.

Dividing and dividing,
Unceasing, unheeding,
The little bastards, once benign,
Once the greatest of helpers,
Now perversely, bringers of sleep,
A most mortal rest.

And the vipers came,
They poked and they prodded,
They sampled and drew blood,
They filled me with poison,
My blood stream, a scorched earth,
My skin, crackled, stretched
And alight with chemical pain.

But the therapy worked,
Five years of murder by inches,
A small price to pay.