Autopsy Turvy

Anyone who has read some of my stuff in the past can attest to the fact that I have some bizarre notions in my mind. One of the weirdest I’ve come up with in my strange mental meanderings has to be this:

Body Count


I love a murder mystery,
But only if it’s Brit.
The grislier, the better–
My dark side thrives on it.

It may start with a body
Chucked in the woods somewhere
Or tucked up in an old trunk,
Stuffed underneath the stair.

Along comes some old codger
With terrier on a lead
That sniffs out something sanguine–
Call coppers with great speed!

Then enters the detective,
Beleaguered by his woes,
While somewhere on the fringes,
The killer surely goes.

All this sets me to thinking
Not of the shot or stab
The thing that I imagine
Is me upon the slab.

If I were the first victim,
What would my corpse reveal?
In coroner’s reporting,
There’s naught I could conceal.

She’d start with my foundation;
Feet, singular she’d note.
The second from the big toe
Is “freaky”, and I quote.

Then moving ‘long the carcass,
So reaching the shin-bone,
He’d feel an indentation
Where backswing shot was blown.

Poring around my privates
With silver speculum,
She’d notice with a grimace
The hemorrhoid on my bum.

Just inching up a short way
To apex of the crack
He’d spot the raised-mole trio
Ascending up my back.

Inside, upon inspection
My pelvis would present
Some endometriosis–
No children Heaven-sent.

An “innie”, not an “outie”,
Lint-free – I daily shower.
A waistline getting thicker—
No longer in youth’s flow’r.

Two breasts, still pert and perky
Though flat out I suspect
While prostrate on the table
Awaiting the dissect.

A smallish mouth that’s gaping
Exposing teeth with caps–
A long ago derailment
From bicycle, left gaps.

On upper lip, scar, faded,
Where suture once was sewn,
Then pulled with tiny scissors–
I did that on my own!

In nostril, right, a septum
That’s crooked as can be.
Eyes ever astigmatic–
Night driving’s not for me.

Hair on my head is threaded
With silver here and there,
But Sun In keeps it burnished
The “pob”-look gives it flair.

Deft, dainty hands, with fingers
Tipped off with clean, clipped nails
No evidence beneath them
Save, fur strands from cat-tails.

What sort of keen conclusion
Can doc derive from all?
What wounds would I have suffered?
What poison? Did I fall?

Of course the biggest puzzle
Is who would want me gone?
Tune in for this poem’s sequel–
Conclusions will be drawn.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2007

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7 thoughts on “Autopsy Turvy

  1. Yet again you about made me fall out of my chair laughing, especially with the part about “the hemorrhoid on my bum”.I have added you to my blogroll

    Like

  2. I had to go back and look at this poem as I often think of it (along with the knicker one…oh, and the menopause one). Tonight I am watching Midsomer Murders and I always think of this particular poem when I watch it – how silly I know, but there you go.

    Like

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