THIRTY-ONE: THIRD DREAM OF SURGERY WAR

First he goes back to surgery war, and then he goes back home.

Surgery war is a gruesome sight, it stays up all night and dares you to fight, and it doesn’t stop at morning.

Going back to surgery war, there’s surgery knives and teeth in store, there’s surgery bombs blown in your face, just having lunch requires a race. Going back to surgery war and do you know what you’ve going for but when your country calls your name you take the hit and take the blame. Going back to surgery war, into the mouth of surgery face and it might not be your vacation place, but there are trees and dangers there. Going back to surgery war and the bloody white tables by the door and the longest knives you have seen in your life and all of your strain, and all of your strife.

Cyclops sets sail and walks his walk and on the way the voices talk and geese in the sky cry out squawk squawk and the tick of the clock and the tick of the clock.

Shudder with the thunder when you meet the Sergeant Major he will flay you with commands – like forwards, backward, take the blade. The medicine tent of the no man’s land front opens its flapping door wide to your arms and noses, the carrots that walk before Cyclops steps and Cyclops multi-eyes.

Boom comes too soon when you enter the room there are flashes and gashes all the way to the moon and if you listen, the tune comes from a feather balloon that waltzes the air with its stair of may care.

Craters are better when they are taller than water. Sugar like dust tastes the air into blood, and here comes the flood, and here comes the flood.

Features are faster, they’re bashed and they’re basher and tasting of tassels, come the wassling damn slashers. Get out your band aids the blood comes in its season, it spurts without reason because you’re gone bleeding.

As red as a rug, as red and as curly, and flex your arms burly, they’re moving from side to side. Look up at the scoreboards to see the final horror, the horror board and the scorerboard and numbers like diamonds.

It’s the third time and the turd time and the lurid time at surgery war. The time you won’t forget there if you bet their chair is set there. This time is the piss time, it’s the wet pants and wet wrist time, it’s the limp time and you fall time, the all in all in all time.

In surgery war, you don’t really have much of a say in your operation. It is war, after all, and it is surgery. There’s not really any efficient means of voting, no good way to give feedback. All the customer satisfaction surveys burned in the last operation. When the scalpel descends and Cyclops falls down down into the thick pastry at the bottom of the operating table, who knew how many eyes will make up and wake up and look up to see, and what they will see out of limbs and hands and faceballs.

Cyclops comes out less like you. Some parts could be fixed with glue. If he’s not satisfied, he can’t sue. All this to be in somebody else’s shoe.

For now it’s back to surgery war, with a rat and a tat and a poly splat splat. For now it’s back to Star Town, for the surgical procedures are sad and over.