I use Carbomer Cetrimide
to fill my eyes
with artificial tears.

If I miss a dose, the eye becomes
gritty, like a ball
rolled across a beach
in search of salty water,
while the ocean keeps retreating,
as if to say -

'it's not natural,
a plastic ball floating on my waves'.

Sometimes I'd love to pull them out,
hold them under the tap, then
reach inside the sockets to scrape the blackened lead
that attaches to the cranium.

Stretching further still,
I'll ease out all the vocal chords -
the years of words that smooth with sandpaper,
filing inanities, 
until I find what's really said.

And, while we're at it, darling,
let's be rid of all the organs.
Cleanse them of impurity,
pin them to a surgeon's table,
discover why they ache, unable to rest.
What the hell! Strip it to the bones, I say!

Bleach them 'til they shine,
line them up, on your doorstep.
I'll be perfect then.
A minimal excuse for man
in a little heap of bones,
natural, real,
waiting for you to come.