All This Fuss about Skin

To tell you the truth
I am infuriated
By all this fuss
About this wench, this skin

To begin with
How she beckons us
With her half-open
Moist mirage lips

Only to meddle
Between you and me


Not for nothing
Do they call her
The biggest organ
Of our body

The bitch keeps
The maximum supply of the blood
For herself

As if that's not enough
She maintains the exact record
Of every passing year


The thing that we call Man
After all is nothing but the skin
Because what we see
With the skin called our eye
Is nothing but skin
What they call clothes
Is nothing but artificial skin
That we use
When we come short of the natural one


One always suspects
The thing that we call the World or whatever
Is anything but the loose wrinkled hide
Of the old man called God

After He gives up his ghost
We will graze his hide
Make pretty purses
And handbags
For our women


Skin me
Make chappals
From my leather
Trample me

Because from now onwards
I am going to wear my body
Inside out like a shirt

So that now you can observe
The skeleton turned out
The dangling intestines
The spleen, the kidneys
The stomach, the liver
And most importantly
Concealed just behind my lungs
The boring exhausted
Booster pump