Operating On The Butcher. Poem by Keight Hockey

smashed bottle glass
dead bodies, beneath the underpass
a surgeon and a butcher
kissing up against the wall
surrounded by their crimes
commiting one of passion now
whilst their tongue slips into
the others mouth
the surgeon slips a needle
into the butchers neck
a brief look aknowledging betrayal
before the limbs drop, frail.
the bodies that already lay underground
had not been treated so well
as to be knocked out before their murder
but the surgeon adored the butcher,
brief conflict arose in the surgeons emotion,
probably due to tiredness and past devotion.
necrophilia had never been an interest before,
and so the musings in their mind were foul to even them,
though, they started to wonder, if maybe,
the times a dead body had lay on the operating table,
and they'd thought about the beauty of life,
if their thoughts had became somewhat off track,
Upon recollection, they had.
running fingers down over eyes, closing them,
kissing their forehead and then,
unlike before - the surgeon held a pistol,
to the temple,
and shot the butcher dead,
feeling a knife or something of the sort,
would be betraying the memories of their past ventures,
where tools of trade had brought them together -
the idea of it splitting them apart was too much