by Nick Gisburne
A tangled fog of searing heat and light
I fight to focus, far beyond the pain
He said this rarely happens, but it might
A consequence of trauma to the brain
The service was expensive, but discreet
The unofficial channels always are
At least the upgrade seems to be complete
I see... my headless torso, from afar
The surgeon, pulling organs from the chest
My limbs, already strewn across the floor
A backstreet body scam - I should have guessed
He couldn’t wait to drag me through the door
I think he’s found the bomb behind my heart
At least I’ll see the bastard blown apart
