In the body of work that is the anatomy is much of what one might want to understand of the things we need to cut away, for until recently, that organ was considered useless that made an appendectomy just routine.
Then maybe twice a year it is a phlebotomy for which many vials serve the needs of a vampire’s convention, the by-product a conversation with my consultant about how healthy I have become from the last time. Yet, from the much I have given, I fail to swoon, no catching of breath nor the loss of it to need a tracheotomy.
When my throat did hurt not for the need of a tonsillectomy, but for the fact that the words I wanted to say never came out in the way I wanted it to play. What might have been an appeal began to repeal what I thought I had, what once looked like mine to have was never once on offer.
We have reached a dichotomy, my head to divest, my heart to invest, when in reality, I might just have my head examined, maybe a lobotomy to remove that longing and desire. For I have been cut up in many ways than I can care to remember, incisions, injections, intrusions and infusions, I am left with many confusions of the mind, of the body and of life.
And if you realise you cannot produce anything, you have the choice between the mild vasectomy and the brutal orchidectomy. What a quandary of -ectomies to contemplate or better still, the necrosectomy of prospects going nowhere.