Your history of scars paints a sordid picture,
don't want to be just another scratch.
The burns I got from playing with fire
taught me that flames must not be touched.
Yes, you burn bright and quite alluring,
my room is dark, could use your light.
But I can tell that by the morning
you will be long gone out of sight.
I find this attempt at comedy both upsetting and unamusing. Whilst you may think fire related injuries are fair game for whimsy, I can assure you they are not. I am writing this from the burns unit of Addenbrokes hospital in Cambridge. Last night my wife and I, in an attempt to spice up our sex life, decided to dress up as characters from our favourite comic books. I already own a Batman costume which I bought cheaply from china and wore to one of my oldest friend's housewarming parties in 2009. It was my wife's intention to dress as Robin, however there was no such costume at the shop and was forced to rent the nearest approximation, big bird from Sesame Street.
ReplyDeleteEverything was going swimmingly, and I was in the process of dripping hot wax on her bottom using a large church candle. In an attempt
to add further excitement to the proceedings I climbed atop the wardrobe with a view to swinging down, using the lampshade, onto her to commence the physical act of love. However when I launched myself it became clear that I had made an error in my weight calculations. The light fitting gave way and I fell from a great height, directly onto the burning candle. One of the disadvantages of having bought the cheapest costume available is that it had not been treated with a fire-retardant spray. I lit up faster than an angry Vietnamese monk. Running from the house, engulfed in flames and setting fire to the curtains on the way, I rolled on the front lawn and managed to put myself out. However, I failed to realise that my costume was still immensely hot, and when I leaned against the window to check the damage to the house, I stuck to it and was unable to free myself. In the subsequent conflagration my entire house was destroyed along with all my earthly possessions including my wife.
After 16 hours in the operating theatre I logged onto a computer in the hospital, hoping to find some poetry to soothe my broken heart. However, when I came upon this poem, I was obviously unable to share in your amusement. I am crying bitter, salty tears. My only hope is that the cleaner accidentally unplugs my life-support machine again. Then you will have killed me.
Ah, Cicatrice! I remember Cicatrice sneakers, made by Cica. Did you burn your shoes? You seem to be obsessed with shoes!
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