top of page

Surgeon Simulator By Fly Adams

Writer's picture: Tin Can PoetryTin Can Poetry

I’m your online operator.

A ‘surgeon simulator’ if you will.

A single, white-gloved finger

eradicating earthly ills.


Specimens on my wall are tagged

and stuffed behind polished glass

where poised peroxide skeletons

crack cryogenic laughs.


I’m a photogeneticist.

A biographical quack.

An optical proctologist

with an endoscope in the back.


Give me a hand, I’ll give you a scalpel;

though I’ll need you to keep me stable.

There’s nothing a good doctor can’t do

from the comfort of your bedside table.


I’m your digital aggregator

that doesn’t know how many thumbs is correct.

A generalising practitioner

who can’t tell a usual pulse from cardiac arrest.

Your curiosity collector

behind a sign that reads ‘Please, tap the glass.’

Your phoney physician.

A cropper.

A chopper.

In short: I’m a hack.

58 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Sheets By Max Goodman

I need to be wrapped. Tight. In the white-starched sheets Of a funeral parlour. I’ll lay Silent and still With small wet breaths....

Your House, Without You In It By Katie Beswick

‘The silence was heavy with eternity’ (Rose Tremain, Sacred Country) The room vibrated an empty sound, My fingers brushed the thin new...

Seasoned Impudence By Cat Cattington

Compressed thumbs numb Tucked between Chair arms and thighs Numbed dead like The amygdala of my brain. He who pressed his groin Against...

Comments


bottom of page