“Except for the other unpleasant species
Most don’t welcome
The dark theme of death.
Like I care!”
These thoughts run through
The mind of the writer,
As he screams foul
To the degree of howl.
His afro is dishevelled
Like one electrocuted.
His ears are taut like of a rabbit-on-heat.
His eyes are hard like a frozen ram’s.
Spit dishonours his lips and beard.
In one passionately fitful arm
He holds his pen.
In the other angrily convulsing
He holds a spiked whip.
The victim is on the floor -
A figure of life’s scrawny tail,
A specimen of minuscule dignity.
He has swollen cuts on the head.
Padlocks on his lips in shame -
Can’t even taste simple joys of life,
His wrists cuffed handicapped -
Unable to do things he always wanted,
Can’t reach basic necessities for life,
Can’t reach anyone to help him.
His back laced with weals,
His health suffers bad.
If wishes were horses,
This man would escape this hell.
But his legs are tied.
The writer adds a “cherry on top”
And breaks his legs -for insurance!
Victim(V): Would ask why, but I doubt I’d understand your complex speeches.
Writer(W): I promise to make it simple.
V: Ok! Please tell me then -why would you want my life’s story this way?
W: because I have never written about someone dying before. I am sorry it had to be you, but whomever I chose would still have complained like you are doing. Just accept your fate. Besides, I have saved you from a meaningless existence. Do you know the many people whose lives follow scripts of fame, wealth, romance, and the whole parade of epicurean pleasures. Cliched vanities! So, if I hadn’t castrated you, what would you have achieved before old age did? Reared children like rabbits to propagate this meaningless existence, or what else? Further, doesn’t your Christianity teach death as way to life? “Die to yourself!”
V: I knew it! You started simple and you went off too deep. How does your mind work like that?
W: Aha! Glad you still have some sense of homour. Anyway, I am also caught in a net of my own. I grew up to find my mind this way. Wish I could help it, but I guess the process of changing my mind-that-makes-complex-sentences-and-is-writing-out-your-life-story-just-for-the-sake-of-a-piece-on-death might as well be as torturous as yours. So, do I kill myself just to shut my mind?
Here, let me also reward you by making your death quick and less dramatic.
And for hours the writer whiplashes coldly at the victim,
Screaming till his eyes would pop,
His pen running out of ink.
“Break his pride.
Add an extra pair of cuffs
To his elbows.
Make a v****a where his p***s is.
Add an extra hole to him,
A dent to his identity.
Hey! Here, see his legs going numb.
Quickly, time to bring the scorpions.
Let the pain exceed the numbness
Oh! Let’s pity him and let him lose blood fast.
Hehehe! Not too fast.
Please get 2 pints of blood ready for transfusion.
Let’s see which wins out -
The blood transfusion or the haemorrhage.
But please, kindly drain his heart of blood and hope gradually, gently, mercifully.
Yes, is the s** change surgery about to commence?
I am afraid not! That’d be unkind.
Oxygen mask please.
We don’t want him to die from surgery.
(I still have a reputation to uphold
As a doctor who must do no harm!)
All the while bystanders watched -
Youtube, facebook, twitter, wordpress, google+…
And when it was done,
The man survived.
The transfusion won out.
He was neither dead nor alive -
The worst kind of death!
Better he had died into rest.
The writer seeing this,
He cooled, combed his own hair,
Shaved his beard and changed his undies.
He unlocked the victim’s padlock,
And the attendants gave him some food.
Then the writer called
To confirm his own appointment
With his shrink/Psychiatrist.