Medical-grade memento mori

thrown in my face (still jawbone-throbbing):

the belfry my worries bat around in

is flayed, flensed of my aging flesh.

But something’s wrong with this radiant knowledge.

Utterly absent my pudgy earlobe,

a silly circle of silver dangles,

dumb and smiling and smack in the way.

Not a bright move, poor empty brainpan,

to leave it flirting behind my fillings.

The dirt’s been dished on my dicey memory

by a graven image gritting my teeth.