by Nick Gisburne
They slice another stripe across my back
Professionals, they use the surgeon’s tools
His mind machine is still inside the sack
A thief who’s caught is punished - not my rules
Perception blurs, untethered from my head
Distorted by the smell of burning meat
I wonder if I’ll know when I am dead
How long until the flesh admits defeat?
They know their business, disciplined, extreme
The boss man waits and watches, sips his tea
He nods with every whimper, every scream
Perhaps one day he’ll know: that isn’t me
The mind machine - I’m in his brother’s brain
But he’s in mine, and feeling all the pain
