The Splicer

He speaks often
of that occassion upon which
he was divided into bits
by that machine called Splicer.

He meets you up the pub and,
quietly spoken, to soften
the description of blood and bone,
tells you how it began with his chest.

The rest
follows in meaty, episodic
chunks of how he
crawled, no legs behind him,

and rolled, with hope, his torso
across mountains and swam
in mighty rivers armless-
bobbing on water almost Jesus like.

One day he claims to have
shown up late with no legs.
The next day no arms.
But still he came with flowers.

He is not a joking man.
It was the splicer did it to him.
It came without invite then slashed
one soft cheek on his butchered head goodbye.

This is the story
of how he grew again from nothing.
Of how his blood refused to leave
his stubborn burning stumps.

My advice is listen
with disbelief wet on your lips.
He will ponder it later
with his skin breaking out
upon his split furrowed brow.

But leave before he tells you the tale
of The Hacked off Cock:
A bloody story which ends,
As it begins, with bull.

As you split
from the table a pint of
beer spilling to the floor,
foaming,
breaking out onto the fucked up carpet,
he rips open his shirt
exposing the scars
from where he was tacked together roughly
with nylon and a giant needle
big as a hair pin.

The scars form a cross
on his chest.
The rest
he gives you as you take a seat again.

He is still divided upon a few issues
(a pint glass is spun meditatively
By three mended fingers on his left hand).

Upon
Where the first cut was made?
Where first the blood was sprayed?