Two Trucks Crash on a Highway Overpass, One Full of Guillotines, the Other Full of Axes

The blade of a guillotine glides through the air,

cutting with sounds like a rotating sprinkler,

and comes down through my left arm,

slicing it clean off.

I pick up my arm and shake my hand,

realising an opportunity here,

in that this action can no longer be defined as ‘clasping one’s hands together’,

but must be ‘shaking hands with oneself’.

The shake is awkward, of course,

because my counterpart has offered his left hand.

I look up to meet his gaze, but there is no gaze to be met,

for I am holding a detached arm!

I swallow a fly in shock.

I wonder if it dies in my body?

Spluttering coughs regurge and resuscitate,

and the fly buzzes off to harvest the juices

of the dissevered arm that I’m holding.

The next event near killed me.

A sound of carving air descended upon my ears,

and I looked up just in time to see an axe

swooshing down from great height,

a terrific feat of autonomy from the blade or handle.

I wondered who the boss was -

blade or handle?

For the blade was shiny,

and mostly shiny things were considered the boss.

But the handle was old and wooden,

so of course the title was up for contention.

Oh I was lucky!

The airborne axe would have sliced my left arm clean off,

had it not been for that vagabond guillotine blade!