In the end it’s barely there. Touch of heat.
Spark of grief. Why won’t such a tiny prick
set me gangling? Not the first to treat
me like this, but … it’s a bit bombastic
to say the last. I mean, a night not fraught
with pain is kinda weak sauce; and, my dude,
you don’t show me much. Is that all you got?
Stubbing your cigar out on my chest? Rude.
Tied down? Duct-taped while Dylan & The Dead
blare? That’s not torture, twitchy. That’s just tripe.
Count the scars. I don’t coddle amateurs.
It’s why these fingers have no nails. I’ve bled
better and you promised me a huge fright;
so damn proud of that tiny prick of yours.