Two Poems: A review of my own autopsy

Most mornings I wake up fairly earlyish – typically between 05:00 to 5:30 am – and fix myself such a massive breakfast (a concoction of milk, porridge, Weetabix, prunes, bananas, flax-seed, cinnamon, and refined sugar) that it consumes all my energy just to eat it, so I lie back down and go into a half-comatose state. Whilst this probably bizarre practice is possibly shortening my life expectancy exponentially, it does give way to some pretty cool, trippy dreams.

These are the particularly illogical imaginings that occur in that drifting state between consciousness and slipping into sleep. When I think of something really otter-piss weird – like imagining an otter’s urinary tract and the subsequent wee, for example – I am shaken awake, momentarily, before beginning all over again and imagining a whole host of other oddities. I’m sure you know the feeling, and that I’m not in desperate need of a visit to my GP so that they might detect the malignant growth noshing off my frontal lobe…right?

Anyway, a week or so ago I had one such dream in which I was an older version of myself, lying flat on my back undergoing an autopsy… while awake. Now, if you think that’s poor practice for any self-respecting pathologist, consider that the sociopath then casually wheeled out my teenage-self, stiff as a todger, and proceeded to check out my adolescent cranium. Right in front of my own dead eyes!

You wouldn’t think having visions of someone slicing you up and removing your windpipe would provide much motivation for catching the commuter train for your 9-5; however, rather than having some epiphany about “living deliberately”, doing an “Into the Wild” and scuttling off to live in the New Forest and make-out with nature and ponies and what not, I simply spent my commute writing a half-baked poem based on the experience. Said poem can be found below for your perusal.

As a bonus – or, if you’re not much of a fan, as an additional turd for the shit-pile – I’ve included a more recent poem about Autumn. Thanks for reading, darlings.


Alive to what feels

like sensation: a cold,

metallic sharp-stirring

in the brain. Neck

tendons grit

yet unmoving

as a bug

in ice. Your dead

eyes awakening

see you,

your body

once, blurry,


lying toe

to toe

with you. Painless

when they peel

your scalp

and scrape

the pink blubber

– no matter –

but Christ

the breathtaking

agony of stars

leaking from the skull

of the dead boy

you feel dreaming

before you.


We are forever

Stunned by the first

Morning of the year

When the clouds

Have swallowed

Themselves into one

Fat cannibal,

The air piercing

Our bloodless

ear lobes,

And, stepping

Into a world


As the lovers’

Silent quarrel,

We feel again

and again

the never going

Back again

Until next year’s



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