Sprain and pinch

If you are a mangled organ, pierced, then this is how you dance. Twist over, unravel and bleed through my shirt. I have worn red for such a spe­cial occa­sion (I remembered to put on clean under­wear, too). I have sixty thou­sand miles of ves­sels to spread among the popu­lace in the hope that they can reuse them for frivol­ous dec­or­a­tion “because it’s how he’d want to be remembered”. I have writ­ten clear instruc­tions on my Donor Card to this effect. I have asked, too, for my eyes to be placed in a match­box and given to a small child who thinks there are mon­sters in the cel­lar. (There are mon­sters in the cel­lar, make no mis­take, but they’re often friend­lier than the humans.) I have fur­ther instruc­ted that my clenched fists should be stripped of their remain­ing skin, hav­ing defen­ded me so well dur­ing the less than eleg­ant scuffles, and shoved onto the rust­ing prongs of metal rail­ings, ideally at a site of immense his­tor­ical import­ance and national pride; some­where where the sound of my decay­ing bones frac­tur­ing then fad­ing into dust on the breeze will at least not seem too futile as final ges­tures go. And lastly — lastly — peel off my cereb­ral cor­tex, which I insist must retain every single con­scious and uncon­scious thought I’ve ever had, every memory and word pre­cisely cata­logued and stored, and force it down my killer’s throat. Make it stick. Make them choke.