Charles bukowskis Autopsy

they peel back my skin like old wallpaper, the stink rising as the organs, bruised and bloated, spill out like forgotten secrets. the saw hums, cutting through bone like butter, the ribs cracking open to a cold, fluorescent light that never flinches. the heart, heavy, useless now, is weighed and tossed aside, just another lump of meat in a world that’s always hungry for the next hollow thing. looking down on what's left of me, I turn in dicust having to do this sll over again.