Lift this piece, there.

Underneath this piece of skin, here is the part which (when identified) creates havoc. 'This is not an Auden poem.' No North, South....East or West or anything like that. Identify the cut-line. It is black spots on the soft skin - you know. The part that smells of vanilla. Vanilla Tic-Tacs possibly. When you put your nose right up to the back, it does remind you of that kind of vanilla. Cut deeply into the skin with the scalpel: 'Watery adenoids - oh dear.' They cannot be used for a transplant. These two parts are under the red hot flesh: 'You will never feel like this again.' Close up the skin with thread made of the whiskers of seals. This label states that, 'you should have done more research'. With a quick flick of the knife, you have found out that someone once, 'did you over in an alley-way 1985'. The wet pavement smelt of a)frogs b)the dog that sits in your grandmother's window c)the dressed crab at your uncle's wedding before the trifle.
Under your arm-pit, the slices reveal strange veins and poetry. Two pages of epidermis that tell you about the fact that, 'every day I have thought of this, for twenty years'. It is sadder than any song you have heard. Quickly, you push the arm down again like a lever. This part you flick off your finger at the dog, who laps and thinks it is all very tasty. He sits and pants. You have a lump in your throat that reminds you of an ice-cream you had when you were four. It has the screwball bubblegum on it and it is red and slightly softer than you remembered, although similar in that it stains the creamy white to red.
Nodules, green, peppery. You shall not be remembered in cuts or astounding meshes. Shortly afterwards, something leaks onto the floor. It seems to be bilious and with a mind of its own. It attempts to head out of the door that mother uses to swish and swash out old potato skins onto the compost heap. Once you put your hand into a rotten potato. It was like Auntie after she died. Her mouth.
All along the dotted line are scissor signs. Openings that are not re-sealable. 'When you see people smiling at parties, you will inwardly cry.' Those kid gloves that strangle everyone. 'You will give out cards to people in the street that have messages from the Bible on them' and 'Your dad is dying and you don't know yet'. He will tell you at dinner soon, when your hand will drop to your side as if to clutch all of your memories into your pocket. Deep in your thigh is a package of air, labelled 'disgust' and massaged a little. 'You will hear your panic drumming from now until 6pm of every day, when they reduce the salad leaves in Somerfield.'
Oh glory, the humdrum of your knee-caps. They make a popping sound as I wrench them open like that barbecue drum-stick we had in the summer. Yours is even more uninspiring. I throw parts of it at the magpie. All I know is that your toes were so damn cute. They eat like coconut peanuts. No more cutting remarks.