Ten of Swords

by Ambrose Hall | May 16, 2020

Chest forceps-cracked,
cavity pilfered,
heart mined for clues,
autopsy stitched.
Is there a dating app for this?
Cadaverous — too specialist.
More butcher’s block than boudoir.
Steel slab chic invites scalpel caresses
where blades have been.
Laura and Albert roleplay —
Fetch the plastic wrap and tweezers.
Pluck out the letters
from under my nails:
    b   o   y

Ambrose Hall (he/him) is a writer of weird and queer and Gothic fiction and poetry. He originally comes from a crumbling Victorian mill town in the North of England, where he was infected with Gothic decay. He now lives with his son and ex in the South East of England, where they are being slowly devoured by the cannibal death-spider, London.