"biopsy" poems
I bought a cruiser bike
instead of a mountain bike
I’m a sextagenarian
not a 30-something
so every morning I pedal
to the corner across from the Ritz-Carlton and the Montage
next to the high-rent Pandemonde Café
and count the Ferraris roaring by.
I never had a Ferrari
but I did buy a ’96 Mustang once
and souped it up with a supercharger
which was around the time
my doctor took me off testosterone
because my prostate specific antigen
was way too high
You have an inoperable prostate malignancy, he said
after the biopsy
You can’t take hormone replacement anymore
It will **** you
And as I lean on my bike
depressed about missing the rush
of another boost of synthetic male hormone
I enjoy watching the Europen speedsters streak by
so proud of themselves
in cars that cost more
than my house.
I used to wish I was them
used to feel like them
when I was younger and charging hard
but now I just utter prayers
for each Lamborghini that goes by
and I say
I hope your car is faster than cancer.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 6:45 AM UTC
the needle on record
catches a scratch
the music’s awry
happily writing a story
the inkwell
runs dry
interruption of
fairytale endings
where nobody dies
awaiting a biopsy
out on a limb
nowhere to hide
©2016janetaylor
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
My sympathy depleted
My friendships deleted
I have been defeated
By truths that hit so hard
I was decleated
By intense hatred deep-seeded
My history was repeated
I guess a three-armed mutant
Has no need for a right hand man
Until his leprosy riddled hands rot off
When he needs them the most
But his ***** limbs had been pretty useless for a while
Since he had lost feeling in them
He had to do a biopsy on his life
After the inaccurate results of the smear test
He took antibiotics to rid himself of the bacteria
But that didn't heal the nerve damage
He yearned for the rhetoric to be less inflammatory
So he took steroids
Transforming the ***** into an ogre
With no semblance of humanity
...Except for the people he devours
Their patience is delicious
He eats that first
Their pity is a delicacy
A rare treat
Their disgust tastes sour
But it's a feast
His cannibalism may seem callous
But the non-mutant lepers take Thalidomide
And get pregnant
Their kids come out defected
With an intense, deep-seeded hatred for three-armed mutants
And lepers and ogres look exactly the same
To those of another species
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC
We need a biopsy
To diagnose hypocrisy
In American Democracy.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
Tomorrow morning they are going to take them,
what am I going to do?
He says it doesn’t matter to him, because I have a pretty face.
In all the years we've been married, he’s never told me I had a pretty face.
I don’t think he’s going to be able to handle this.
Hell, I don’t think I'm going to be able to handle this.
God ****** I am going to loose my hair,
I am gonna loose my beautiful ******* hair, then everyone will know.
People will put sanitizer on their hands after they shake mine.
All my friends and family will treat me differently.
They’ll feel sorry for me, they won’t know what to say.
And then there’ll be those who will say too much, or the wrong thing.
"I’ll pray for you", some will say,
But I know what they are thinking, they think....
"that is what she gets for drinking her martinis and smoking her ***
Some will even say it is God’s will.
**** God!
He is stealing my beauty,
my wonderfully gorgeous **** my hair.
They are a part of me.
I don’t give a **** what a man thinks about my *******
that they are **** or voluptuous,
they are a part of me.
And now, like a side of beef,
they are going to section me up and take them from me.
What will they do with them?
I mean after they biopsy.
Can I have them to bury?
Sorry, I know that wasn't necessary, but I am mad.
I am mad and afraid, I am so afraid.
I know my husband, he will never be the same.
He doesn’t **** me with his eyes closed, my **** turn him on.
But then any woman’s **** turn him on.
When he reaches to touch them, there’ll be nothing there.
I’ll look like a little boy, nothing.
Maybe I have identified with them too much,
I have made them a big part of my personality.
I've fed my children with them, my boyfriends fought over them,
they have got me into and out of trouble more than once.
**** I am going to have to get a whole new wardrobe.
And now, in the morning
they are going to cut them off of me
and put them in a stainless steel operating room bowl.
Like chicken fat.
Why do I feel like this,
I didn’t cry when the dentist pulled my wisdom teeth?
What if he told me I had to or else I would die, I’d pulled them myself?
I trim my nails, and get my hair cut and dyed.
I exfoliate my skin.
I lost 10lbs last year and I didn’t shed one tear,
my ******* will weigh more than that.
But I am loosing something else,
I am loosing normal.
I'll have to find a new normal.
I am loosing myself
and replacing it with a different person.
I’ll be one of them,
I’ll be a survivor,
a hero.
I'll hold hands with other survivors and walk 10 miles
and wear a **** load of pink.
Hey, but I don't look too bad in pink.
later this week a friend is going to have a double mastectomy. These are just a few of the words I have collected from other breast cancer survivors. I had to do something for her. My hope is that we become more aware of the fear and pain that breast cancer victims go through.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
Lying post ***
Thinking about what I've done,
The best love I ever gave...
I was thinking of you.
This dark matter seeps into
the white glow surrounding your image.
Good and bad intertwine
like inseparable lovers.
This thing we have
is a biopsy of the nature of the universe:
The **** always stains the white pavement
and becomes a part of it forever.
Why do I have to love you?
Please cut this string,
stab me in the heart, and
End it.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
We forgot to make love last night,
yet again like many other nights
we remained distant islands separated by
Bermuda's of bed sheet and air.
The body wasn't very happy
Those thousands of red cells inside you
divided and redivided in anger
Ached and oozed and broke free
from your restless
When I woke up this morning,
I found you lying in a pool of blood.
You decided to go to work
After all it was a Friday and
the long weekend was a week away.
You take too many iron supplements
I fear, one day your body will be so full of folic acid
that it will cry.
We have the Smokies lined up for October
and the Cayman Islands in Christmas
Thinking of planned vacations makes me go to work
every day
Even though I ****
so bad
that I'd rather open a book store
and read all day
and sell a book or two.
My life is still all about you
After all these years
I still couldn't kiss that woman who
asked me on a coffee date at 10 pm by the lake.
or the one who found me cute on our album by the dressing table
You would say "Go ahead , we are not married yet".
I would laugh when I am alone,
thinking of the all the things you say
these days.
You say all the good things in life needs planning
marriage, kids,
buying house on mortgage
convertible sport coupes
vacations in South Pacific.
I find it ironic that I met you on a book store
when I cancelled a TGIF party and had this sudden urge
to buy Alice Munro's short stories.
We were sweet, back then.
Now you lie,
about being anemic on your weekly routine checkup
hide,
your biopsy report soon afterwards;
lie again,
on the reason of your sudden cancellation of the planned vacations for the year end
saying it's work.
Then you disappear, terrify me
Only to come back strands of hair gone from your head
still say nothing,
yet finally disappear saying nothing before I could buy us
the last vacation together.
I regret how much we could have done
together
if we made love more often
my body healing yours
resting, soothing,
purging all the enemies.
On the day when we supposed to be married
I visit the Caymans
laughing alone in a crowded beach
thinking about all the things you used to say these days
having Alice Munro's short stories for company.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”
Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month
Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”
“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”
Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?
“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
I waited too long
to mow my lawn
biopsy my lung
yet lived long enough, anon,
however long is long.
Whatever. It's not wrong
to count along
while busy living. Sing
and stay strong
absorb the sun's photons
and store them in your bones.
Those bones
outlast slights and spurns
are white as lightning and strong
as sticks and stones.
Inside is one's
spirit, soul, the nameless one
the one that's never known.
It has no cell phone
can't communicate or even moan.
Therefore. Why complain?
Have some fun.
Soon
I'll be undone
subterranean
my garden burned down.
So what. John Donne
died and so did Milton.
Emerson too, and Whitman.
Get over it. Vote. Love. When
the train comes in the station
whistle with it, wish on
stars with passion
or careful hesitation.
Anything's fine, within reason.
Season by season
things get done.
Algebra and calculus, Malcolm X, George Washington.
No taxation
without representation.
A gun
in every den.
People will be governed
one way or another, by a sovereign
or trusted friend. Corporation.
Men
are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than
to right themselves by abolishing the Evils to which they are
resigned.
I'm too young
to die! I cry. My generation
cannot outrun the sun
but I want to see what happens
next, a tsunami or tornado, rain
and wind beyond our comprehension
hit in the head by speeding debris, irony
of ironies! plastic contraptions,
rotting computers and yogurt cups, pain
in the baby! Moment's
notice. None,
I notice, live long
enough to see the end. Amen. A million
years hence
human sense
has so modified and mutated among
other moons
we share one mind
and everything's remembered by everyone.
Look it up. There is no death, just perfect rest. A perfect tan
is possible, and work is fun.
I'm going there when I pass on
because souls will travel at warp speeds, using nuclear fission.
About suffering, religion
was right (and wrong) all along.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
*A shadow on the upper right lobe,
its probably nothing*
Its close to Christmas,
I think about our first
and how purple it was,
sunflower medallions
and George Winston.
I grew my hair long
and wore camouflage.
We ought to run a few more tests
My guilt was more than
I could carry back then,
gallons in half gallon buckets,
blood splashing onto
white carpet.
*We'll get a little more blood on
Tuesday*
The waiting game was nearly terminal,
the kids and I exchanged gifts in the Sears
parking lot. When I got home you held me.
We need to talk in my office for a minute
I cried about the choices they made.
You were never unkind. The rosaries I
made were hung on our bedposts,
they hang there still.
The shadow on your lung is a tumor
Its been five years. They're adults now
and old enough to hear about death.
I'll schedule a biopsy for after Christmas
I don't think I'll tell them.
I don't think I'll tell you either..
maybe just once we'll have a peaceful holiday.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC
early morn (5:00am) scanning, scrolling,
unrehearsed searching and the question
appears in a “loves that got away” column,
*(why do all these descriptors start eith S,
I think I know!)*
and off on another self-effacing, investigative determination, a mental biopsy of another hopeless cause,
that results in poems too long
though the body and mind are rested,
with six hours of uninterrupted sleep,
and volumes of dreams,
the quest bags a burr in the bed,
(yes, rhymes with head)
but n o t h i n g pops in with a grin,
and a bell ring, stating presumptuously,
why that’s me
and the fault failure fear
in me
engorges
this really distresses,
with & in a deep sense of awful,
how can I not recall this momentous
illustrative precious precision
proof of why life is worth living,
and worser still,
don’t I get to choose,
isn't this an interrogatory,
suitable for a pre-provided
Multiple Choice Answer?
a pause to collect myself from a
falling into a hole of nefarious negativity spiraling,
*suddenly
recalling so many
kind and gentle touching brushes
of your comments re my poetry,
which provoked warm tears*
^***and one more tine,
poetry has saved
a life***^
5:37am Saturday 2-15-25
Feb 15, 2025
Feb 15, 2025 at 5:47 AM UTC
It's a, colonoscopy, a simple colonoscopy
checking your bowels, for things that you, might have forgot
I mean a, colonoscopy
not really where ya wanna be
drinking goop that cleans ya out
and makes ya wanna gag
It's a, colonoscopy, a simple colonoscopy
not a packing of the fudge, or a deviant excuse
I mean a, colonoscopy
a cinematic intrusion probability
the kind that ya can't show the kids
or hang upon your wall
It's a, colonoscopy, a simple colonoscopy
it's a must for determining, if I'm cancer free
I mean a, colonoscopy
so I can exercise my liberty
I will not be persecuted anally
for at least three to four more years
It's a, colonoscopy, a super duper biopsy
popping polyps, before they can, ever pop me
I say a, colonoscopy
an endoscopic discovery
living worry free and wild
three to four more years
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
She said she doesn't feel them
So there would be a hard time getting someone to biopsy them
And they're multiple some are hard some are big and theres NOTHING I can do
(Nothing)
Your anxiety was worthless so STOP IT
(Please, stop.)
And even though I'm supposed to feel good-
Like I'm healthy and OK and
Not going to die any second-
I still feel as though they're going to find cancer.
Someday.
And they'll be sorry,
But I'll be sorrier.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
Train 85 leaves the station and bursts into the blinding sunlight with a surreal suddenness. Below, to the left of the tracks, a field of wheat sways as though still under a summer sun. Golden-brown and lively in spite of the snow resting at its roots. The blinding sun hangs high, glimmering on the water. It gives me a headache. I try to ignore it.
Ahead of me, the laughter of two young people fills the car. I wonder if they are strangers, engaged in conversation just minutes after meeting. I wonder if they have the same destination, if they are each equally happy to be heading towards it.
To my right, across the aisle, a woman no older than fifty talks loudly on the phone about her father’s tumor and the biopsy that will soon determine if it is cancer. She sounds optimistic, and I am happy for her. I tread lightly on the thought that maybe her loud optimism is a front. I want to be happy for her. But in an hour I will get off this train, and if her father dies, I will never know.
The woman sitting next to me returns from the café car with a Dunkin' Donuts coffee and takes out her laptop. I turn down my brightness so that she can’t see that I am writing about her. Even though I write nothing bad, it feels like some sick invasion of privacy.
My fingers feel heavy. This train feels heavy.
I want to be outside, before the sun sets, while the golden-brown wheat is still bathed in light. The sun is going to set without me. I try to be okay with that.
The last time I ever wrote on an Amtrak — the last time I can remember —, it was a song about loneliness and self-destruction. It was more than two years ago. I want to be able to say that I have changed more than I actually have. But even as the world rushes past me, snow and wheat and house and sun, I still feel impossibly lonely. The heaviness from my fingers is in all of me now. I can’t shake it.
The young people ahead of me, the woman across the aisle, and the woman next to me all begin talking at once now, and I feel hot. Their words bounce back and forth off the walls, and I need to get off of this train. Receiving these airborne snippets of other lives feels wrong, feels overwhelming.
Anyone who reads this piece will think I’m insane.
The woman next to me stops speaking. The young people ahead of me quiet down. The woman across the aisle is engaged in some other conversation that I can’t exactly make out. It’s quieter. I might still break the windows of this train if I could, but it is quieter. My fingers feel a little less heavy. It is quieter. At least the insanity is in words now.
Jan 2, 2018
Jan 2, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
"Stay?"
A pleaded entreaty with tears
Soaking the edges of it's echo
Carries from your mouth to my ears
My mind races with leg entwined visions
The sloppy wet heat of our tongues
Swirling
Whispered apologies for years of neglect and bad choices
All could be mine
Yet...
That may be all this is
Chemical desire in a centrifuge
Until well blended with come **** me
DNA strands
You say you'll be there
Then when most needed
"Where's Waldo?", on the search
You know, even without disease
Our telomeres will eventually decide
When we are finished
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your fingerprints are all over my heart
Love, it's my mind
You've been reaching for all of this time
To only brush it with your fingertips
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
I feel like an antiquity
some relic from the past
crumbling at the edges
eroded over time
aging has arrived
There are fissures in my proud steel plated armor
once invincible
reality is bringing with it a heavy blow
it creeps upon you
like a stealth thief in the night
now you berate yourself
for being caught unaware
new words slip into your vocabulary
things like “possible stroke”
a litany of tests are conducted
let’s begin with a blood test
maybe a ***** sample
we can schedule an MRI
is this a heart attack
there is a CAT or CT scan as it is known
what about the C word, cancer
let’s do an ultrasound
ff that doesn’t find it there is always
an endoscopy or colonoscopy complete with biopsy
the realization that life’s destiny is prevailing
is the end nigh
the relic you have become
looking at you in the mirror of life
Andreas Simic©
Apr 26, 2022
Apr 26, 2022 at 6:12 AM UTC
Cancer my barriers you are breaking down
I keep on swimming until I drown
Biopsy results with cell abnormalities
Is it the start of another fatality?
Again I'm waiting for more test results
I keep on searching... is it all my fault?
So many questions but silence remains
In emotional turmoil I feel the strain
As they continue to run more tests
I will remain under constant threat
It's a question of time and falling down
I will keep on swimming until I drown
4th February Cancer Day
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
You weren't alone when you got the news
Modern medicines waiting room blues
A stethascope doesn't know the way your heart beats
And science never found a reason why
Suffer begin
Voice in the night
When words are unspoken
Hands from the sky
Are ripping me open
Suffer begin
You're in room nine the third door on the left
You've been through the test and never know to expect
Sputum cytology, x-rays, and biopsy
You've never needed lungs to breathe
Suffer begin
Words in the night
About a body that's broken
Hands from the sky
Are ripping me open
He is a friend of mine
Suffer begin
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
Well hi there, I need a mole removal. I'd do it myself but I need biopsy approval. If it 'a cancerous, I'd like to know. And for this reason, to the dermatologist I'll go.
Well hi, there, I see you're in-network. A $50 copay? Sure, that'll work. What's that? Later in you're going to charge me a $150 new-patient fee? But, why? I was only in here for maybe twenty minutes. Am I now being charged rent to sit my *** on your medical chair?
So now I'll wait for the bill to arrive. Oh, look. It's here... Wonder what it'll be?
$298!? What the hell could've cost so much? All you did was inject me with some sedative, bring in something comparable to a box opener and lop it off. The whole thing, in-room with me took you just about less than 15...
Oh, and look... It looks like my insurance did pay more than half. It cost nearly $800 for the whole thing. What the crap?!
Oh, I suppose our country is trying to work out the kinks. And for all my troubles, I guess I'll be finalizing my account for mostly, if not all free. Once the financial assistance department decides to stop giving me the run-around. Next time, I suppose I'll need to inspect further. Just because the office is down the street does NOT necessarily mean it's going to end up being cheaper. Because if I'd have known maybe $10 in gas would have saved me all this trouble, I would not have gone to what is technically classified as a "hospital."
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Sandwich
no sand
a
tea but not witch
I feel slightly
Rodney
must have that
biopsy
Albert tells me
it's okay.
the wind from the East
could blow me away
not today though because
I'm weighed down by life.
glad of some gravity
who wouldn't be?
shouldering responsibility,
the new me
albeit without the biopsy.
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 5:12 AM UTC
i never knew i could feel so sick and so happy.
you tore me apart
in the most beautiful way.
the hole where my heart was still bleeds.
i wish you had taken my stomach
for, without butterflies in it, it is useless.
my brain has no purpose
now that you are not around to occupy it.
and worst of all you left me with lungs that i wish would collapse
because without you oxygen is poison.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
elevator was full
when the bell 'dinged' and the doors opened
on the geriatric floor
mom was lost in the back
intimidated by the crowd
she held out her hand
for me to pull her through
some folks chuckled
with their haughtiness and sun glasses
such silly, ignorant people
I guess they thought I had an old girlfriend
from then on
whenever she needed to
she would hold out her hand
for me to help her
got to know her better
in her old age
learned to ignore her crankiness
and façade of always knowing better
just watching tv and joking with her
evoking a giddy laugh
or a toothless smile
drawing her bath
seeing to her needs and comfort
dealing with her doctors
eyeballing her meds and diet
comforting her tears
paramedics whisked her to ER
they found a tumor in her stomach
her children and grandchildren kissed her
on her cheek and forehead
en route to pathology's biopsy
when they rolled her bed past me
I gave her a thumbs up
hoping she would return it
instead, she held out her hand
she must have been scared
I held if for a moment's reassurance
but this time I couldn't pull her through
she survived the surgery
but never made it home
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:31 AM UTC
Waiting for a biopsy result can be its own kind of hell
because you can't be sure whether time
will bring you something good or **** you.
It's not that I fear death yet, even though I know I will,
it's the anticipation of the death process ripping me down
from the inside out while people I love are sorrowful
and try to be brave for me.
And yet, the answer time is hiding could be life
full and warm and wonderful and long,
which is to say death will use a slower process to claim me
and those who love me will have more time to watch
as I fade to the Place we all must go.
It strikes me then these moments, even now
as I bare my soul to you, are something
to be enjoyed rather than spent in dread of what time could bring,
for the ultimate result has never been avoided.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
4/3/2016
i fear i will never get that year back,
that lying down on the grass
that turned into loitering on alleyway fire-escapes and
dont you think this town is a little too small for that hahahaha
i tried to recreate it, the futility drove me to
smoke camels i found on the side of the road,
i haven't smoked in a year and i feel worse
i felt a very real grease back then a very real
bad quality
and now it is just vague, glacous- a night without sleep,
a cliffside leap.
it has been six months since i sat on a shackled hospital bed
and i dont think i ever really left.
my mother threatened to bring lawyers,
to halt my detainment
and i did leave
but i didn't really
and i don't think i ever will
this is all because i tried to recreate that year
and i failed
and i tried so hard
but the scalpel and cauterize of live's uncouth events picked me
apart, a biopsy
to the bone,
accidentally severed my torso and killed me
so i linger a downy ghost in a grey colony of moss
wishing for better days
that are far away
and will always stay that way.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC