Thursday, 5 November 2015

The Modest Surgeon

Employ the best in the world
A translator to emphasise
The fame of the surgical hand
The dignity of experience sought after
A celebrity client
Beams a smile behind thick glasses
Hung on the brick wall
With her autograph in black ink, the complimentary

The surgeon cannot carry out his schedule
Until tomorrow and the days to follow the closing of March
The surgeon brain requires as much rest as the brain of the patient
And his knives a good sharpening
Before the shedding of skin
Fear only the flaws of social diagnosis
Eyes downcast completely shut
To contemplate the better future
Like an expectant mother
Waiting for her face to flourish

In the brainwash there is neither time nor limit
A badge of sorrow disguised under the weight
Of the folds of exhausted frowns
The face takes a toll unjust on the body
Bodies adjusting to difficult expectations
Can never comprehend the sense of

A senseless stabbing
At the forefront of heads laminated glossy
Like magazine covers
Flaunting the infamous flavour and colour
Of artificial manipulation 
Those diligent mothers
Deprive their children of

Confronting difference with a stench
The evaporation from drains
To dispel the waste of unwanted ugly
The excess of cruel nature
So in the face of the mother
Throw the fakeness of confidence forged
Lay a kiss on the magician’s hand
In the blue uniform
The doctor, we shall call from henceforth
Our holy father