"carcinogen" poems
carcinogen fogs will cancer you thick
you will dismiss
the salt stain of a visitor
you will pretend
the Tuesday's are not boring
the coffee is not weak
the room smells like chlorine
remember
you are a girl.
she
smiles for money.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Met this easy chick that don't **** **** she a no brainer
I said **** my duck and she said "What could be lamer?!"
Defamed, I went home cried and smoked some ******
Watch teletubbies in my ****** like my last name was schiefer
I went to bed and heard a scream
like R.Kelly I peed my sheets
Turns out the ****** was laced some sort of hallucinogen
I'm worried that in my bloods a carcinogen
decided not to worry cause whats the point
We all die so chill and roll a joint
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
I Blink 182 times,
Can I Handle This
This is the Sum of 41 reasons I won't smile this holiday
I'm feeling like I may Fall Out, Boy do I hate thinking about who's buying your presents this year.
It's weird how this holiday season is always a new All Time Low
**** this place. I would much rather Walk The Moon fixin for something that warms my heart again. So I hold it in my hands and breathe.
And I Imagine Dragons breathing fire onto my skin, maybe someone will call me hot.
Maybe Someone will Hear Me.
I sit on my Front Porch Step Aware of the Mayday Parade that marches down my spine and I forget how to walk.
How to talk
how to breathe as I Panic! At the disco music that you seem to really like.
You are memories of a ride in a Death Cab
For Cutie I Will Follow You Into The Dark.
If I'm not already there.
And I will Parachute into Owl City and lie in your bed that is a Passion Pit.
It entramps me and keeps me hostage and I hate what your sheets feel like.
You make me think that love is Of Monsters and Men and that women don't feel that word.
You have killed me a thousand times,
Queen
of ******* over the things I have planned.
We are My Chemical Romance a toxic ******** life threatining carcinogen trying to **** me.
But this is Kinda Punkish I Guess and again I have my playlist.
That sounds like you but it saves me and doesn't **** me.
Here's a Simple Plan this holiday. Leave me the **** alone this year.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
The city breathes in,
A rattling wind of dusty smog,
Desperate in earnest,
Filling up the tubes and chambers
Like bellows on a hot furnace.
The air is pervasive, insidious;
It sticks to your skin and burns
Like holy water flicked from Jordan,
Downstream from the chemical plants
And pipes that lead health a merry chase.
It chews up the lungs with carcinogen teeth
And spits out the bits leaving holes of black
That spread through the organs like fire,
Immolating thoughts of hope and dreams,
And constantly whispering give up the race.
The city breathes out,
A rattling wind of corrupted fog,
And those that escaped the ill in the dark
Race like the wind away from its lungs,
Before the corruption spreads to their heart.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
There she was
with lollipop legs
and cream soda curls
as she kissed the crown
of her camel 99
and a cascade of carcinogen smoke
drifted up from cherry red lips
and she looked at me with neon blue eyes
and the liquor on our breathes
spelled both our demise
as we played cat and mouse games
under beaten black and blue skies
When it was all over
and I had tasted those cherry red lips
and felt the alabaster sway
of her marshmallow hips
she said it wasn't very often
you felt highs like this
we both let out a sigh
and then parted with a kiss.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
I can't stand to see
this subpar standard of sickness.
They shout get down out over the halls filled with lights
and I let go free of my highness.
Your sweat is candy cane
carcinogen cancer kissable sweet.
Its all the lines, and caps, and tabs and snaps we've done
they all go to get me on my feet.
Words waddle out wet
winding washed up wishes back to life.
My mind holds confused conference calls and buzzed board meetings
about what to do with my one night wife.
Hotel havens harken us and
hazardous inhaleables heighten habitions.
We lay down warm and panting after an exaggerated night of furious dancing
to practice on our yet unnamed positions.
I wake wicked wasted
wondering where the woman went.
Her clothes lay scattered, make up splattered, then I hear her in the bathroom chatter
that her night had been well spent.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 4:08 AM UTC
the sky is on fire;
the rest is a series of grays.
wrought iron, rot of ages.
earth besot by metal, metal besot by rust.
an oxidized baptism.
clouds are made in factories now.
the silver lining is a carcinogen
toxic as the underside of peeling paint.
spring is devoid of sound.
persephone speaks in whispers
with a copper taste in her mouth
and lungs filled with blood and dust.
an old nosebleed has dried in rivulets down her face.
cross-legged and bony on a rusted y-beam
she counts down to doomsday
in dried flower petals.
a lone figure amidst a sea of flags of surrender
rendered in miniature
and shivering, flapping in the gale
she ties ribbons to the slender limbs of the condemned.
the falcon is long gone.
there is no-one home in the cobwebs.
at night, the smog blots out the stars.
she wraps her arms around her wasted frame
stands in opposition of progress
and waits for the sirens
and a new clear winter.
she remembers a time when there were still blank spaces on the maps.
but this is topside, and there is no undiscovered country.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
We are never the same person twice.
"Now" ends as soon as the word is uttered;
whoever we are in one breath
flickers and fades in the next
until it is a thing of the past,
a guttering candle.
We are never the same person twice.
I promised myself I'd never fall for a smoker.
You promised yourself you'd never smoke.
And we swore to each other we were not promise-breakers.
So tell me,
when I first saw you with
the ****** thing
between your fingers,
why did I so badly crave
the taste of nicotine
as long as it meant
your lips against mine?
And why was I willing to risk
entering your carcinogen-filled haze
just to be near enough
to hold your hand?
You turned me against my own self,
yet I could not bring myself to hate you.
You could not bring yourself to love me,
though I've given you all the reasons to.
We are never the same person twice.
Yet we are not always so volatile.
I constantly find myself on my knees.
I am constantly digging through our ashes,
Searching for embers that must still be there.
I constantly find you towering above me.
You are constantly pacing around in your drenched shoes,
Blindly extinguishing everything we could ignite
With your saltwater tears I know will never be for me.
We are never the same person twice.
I await the morning this actually feels true.
The morning I wake up a version of me
That is no longer in love with every version of you.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
searching for the last one, rolling around, sad and half-bent in my bag
forgotten
well, almost
oh god I needed this
guess I quit quitting
sing me a carcinogen lullaby
soprano, take the smoke rings
alto, the smoldering ash
tenor, the printed logo
bass, the filter in my teeth
"oh, we'll never let you go"
they sing as they sink in stained claws
"not that you want us to"
and the ethereal blue gray chorus
curls upward and into the wind
tendrils of them tremble in the air
before departing
leaving only this painful craving in their wake
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
All my life I've been lectured to stay away from the dangerous things in life.
Stray animals, unknown substances, drugs, alcohol, and the things in between.
But no one ever warned me about the dangers of falling in love.
The way it resembles all the listed dangers.
Oh how love can wound my heart as if it has clawed it bit by bit.
Oh how love is so world known yet so strange and confusing.
Oh how love takes me to the highest clouds with addiction being the aftermath.
Oh how love can make me fumble, release my secrets, and bring me a pounding ache the morning after.
But no one ever warned me about the dangers of falling in love.
Maybe because love in all reality is far worse than any spiked drink.
Worse than a pill that drives me insane.
Worse than being mauled by sharp teeth and claws.
Love is more of a carcinogen.
Flowing through my bloodstream, unwanted, hurtful.
A substance I can't remove, despite the many attempts.
Love is far too dangerous for one to speak of.
Love is something so dangerous we refuse to accept it as an actual threat.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later,
I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be.
That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed
in the past three years by me,
in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest.
I'm surprised I haven't died,
or contracted a malignant growth in my throat,
or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up,
or haven't choked on the smell,
or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap.
Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve
of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in.
I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself.
In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster,
it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer
to friends I once hid away with and shared moments
over cigarettes.
But back to my point,
way back then, when I met you.
I didn't want to smell like smoke,
I didn't want you to hate it on me.
I didn't need to curb the anxiety.
I didn't want to taste like lung cancer.
I didn't want to remind you of what you hate.
It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic
(rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint,
but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say.
I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed.
You don't know I wanted to, though,
I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse;
we both wanted more,
and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day.
I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred,
I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Dear every being whom I may have titled my best friend,
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because I’ve experienced more compassion and reliability
From a nine dollar carcinogen encased poisonous mass produced product
Than any so called companion
A cigarette doesn’t forget to call back and a cigarette knows the inspiration I lack
I lack the tact to express myself and despise the fact I engage in the act
Of filling my lungs with poisonous smoke
But I have too much proof that my life is a joke
So I complain everyday yet still I refrain from fueling my brain
Because I’m ******* lazy, and I’d rather be stuck in a haze than
Do something to better my days.
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because that’s my ******* topic for this poem.
I could’ve chosen politics or the art of giving road dome
But I hate politics, and I might get sent home if I get too graphic
Cigarettes don’t mind if I get too graphic
Cigarettes embrace the moments I can’t even face
Sometimes, I forget where I am
Because Haley’s brain’s like strawberry jam
And bring her to places too tight she can’t cram
enough time, or a path that won’t wind
Without a 24 hour jet fuel power
Through her past locked in walls
With thoughts like roaring waterfalls
And migraines like jackhammers
You should all take lessons from tobacco companies
Because when words sink like anchors to the bottom of my ocean,
I’m tryna cop a bogie, I’m tryna stay coastin
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
breathe in incense smoke—
swirling carcinogen,
but not my favorite.
not by far, not when
bruised lungs run in the family.
smolder, smoke, ash, original sin,
a debt i am going to make you watch
me pay. i'm always playing the victim.
i read seduction, i breathe in incense,
to maintain an innocence
i never had. it just feels so religious to self-flagellate.
i speak in tongues and don't make sense,
i try to trace myself through the guilt,
and envy jesus.
at least he had
the nails as reference.
how many times you've done this before
is about the only difference
between being a martyr and deserving it.
May 11, 2021
May 11, 2021 at 10:57 PM UTC
for some reason, I've been sleeping on my couch
all week- - stolen the over-sheet from my bed
and plodded it over the cold leather so I don't
squeak and freeze in the night. I can't tell if it's
because I'm too tired to make my bed, or if
sleeping in the living room gives me a sense
of not being so alone like being next to those
loosely shut closets full of clothes and nothings
(and the memory of you) in pitch darkness. the
same lethargy has struck me with dishes. beer
bottles and empty yellow tail all sit where they
were abandoned after a night of silent-drunk
-chat-flirt. sometimes I forget to turn my coffee
maker off, and the coffee literally cooks to the
bottom of the *** like some disgusting carcinogen
pancake. ***** clothes lay about like fallen soldiers
on the dismal battlefield of my heart- all unaware
that even if one fights to win, and victory is attained,
the whole countryside has been devastated with
thousands killed who will never return to the
comforting silence of their loved ones reading
books in the living room.
for some reason, I've been sleeping on my couch all week- -
stolen the over-sheet from my bed and plodded it over the
cold leather so I don't squeak and freeze in the night.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
I'm not going to lie to you -- this time
Your look is the gravity pulling me down
Body by self, smell hair in your armpits
Books on the shelf stare back, bare backs
Maybe stretched out, two queers in a **** affair
could be lovers over distance, for instance
Rap time's door wanting to find love in there
We're both too busy. Fat by pelvic bones,
Butter on the hips, love means nothing
to the moment's dissent. Get your grip, too
a palm to the face a squeeze on a ***
how does it feel up and down a woman with a ****
You're smarter and harder than all of
my experience. Tattoos in ChiTown, pierced
lips -- upstairs -- ******* cancer on the waterfront
Who's carcinogen? Whose carcinogen crush
on a T with a blunt is worse than the other one?
I got plain Jane I got ground game
while you got the stratosphere. I got mono
You got amory. I want bite marks, I want red neck,
I want dinner of insides with a held head
I want four legs opened up
I want bodies shared in trust
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 5:26 PM UTC
And what's worse
cursed
with something of a conscience
that despite being disrespected
and
***** will not let me leave.
Vulnerability
pressed
to the face of death with a smile
stretched ear to ear bowed
down
under the weight of fear.
Courageousness breaks
heavy pain. I use it against you.
Prostrate to the matrons
I begged for your courage for me.
Surprise
Surprise
Even when you hurt your loved ones
You focus on yourself
Surprise
Surprise
Even when you hurt someone you love
You protect yourself
You double down
in the name of pride.
Newsflash:
Your children are smart enough
to purposefully see
that they never procreate
if only for the world
to both act Atropos
on this overgrown
carcinogen
to humanity
and slash the path
of another hillbilly bloodline
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
This car dealership coffee and styrofoam cup,
Makes me wonder how I'd live,
If I were to surrender or run,
Everything seems so paper here,
So two-dimensional so thin,
Suburban castles could be blown away by reality's wind,
I wonder how the people still exist,
Cardboard prop ups,
Nobody knowing the world or love,
Just what propaganda has told us,
Nobody realizes we are not alive,
Slaves to the modern idea of conformity and strife,
People claim find god in glory and wealth,
Along with a prescribed happiness,
But god drifts in the air and in the sea,
She is the desert breeze and the rain of spring,
Wars rage over unknowns rulers' precedence,
Rather than breathing the carcinogen air of humanity's present,
And I just watch,
Drifting to come close to living,
Loathing to come close to loving,
Mentally deteriorating to come close to reality,
Dying to come close to faith,
Dying to come close to an escape,
Dying to come close to clarity,
To life,
If I were submerged in the dirt,
I'd be held by god,
And embraced by Allah,
Consumed by all deities who are one in the same,
And loved for what stories my disintegrating bones told,
Rather than my fresh faced human skin,
Rather than my cardboard exterior,
Rather than my papered mask,
I'd find life by dying,
And faith by death,
So ask me once more why I smile through my cancer bearing 7 minutes of heaven,
In this paper mansion of a business,
Ask me why I let the caffeine soak through my veins and over stimulate my heart,
From this industrialized styrofoam cup,
Though you already know,
I'm only doing what we all are,
Trying to find out how to exist,
Only I've realized it's not about life,
It's about the exit.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
The breath of the wind raises hairs on her neck.
She breathes out a clouded breath of whiskey fire.
Outside the venue, she kicks her shoes, waiting.
Where's the loser on the drum kit?
She knows she blows the set with her absence, but she can't
Stop tapping her heel at the wall, measuring splits in bricks
With her nicotine fingernails.
Where's She? She's such a *****
The whole day closes in, in an instant, night descends.
Her twentieth cigarette dances in a rush to end it,
But her eyes catch sight of the mauve and indigo sky through
Buildings over bridges. Twilight ignites her quarter candlestick.
Outside the venue she kicks her shoes, waiting.
Outside her lonely lungs drink carcinogen
to an eager death with smokers. Cough.
Cough cough cough
Cool as ice.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
You.
You are what once stayed my hand from rage.
You once blocked my lips from every bottle,
with your lips.
You are what once prevented tar from coating my lungs,
and you kept hate from filling my heart.
You once prevented my untimely demise.
You.
You are now every punch I throw and take in return,
You are every ounce of liquor that filters through my kidneys.
You are now every carcinogen I too often inhale,
You still keep my heart from hate,
Because you filled it to bursting with sorrow.
You are what I now follow to my grave.
You.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
She pulls out a box of CD's;
says name your poison.
Cobalt-60 will do.
Bare Naked Ladies will be
the band du jour.
I lie on the slab
in the radiation lab...
*yes i'm...lying in bed...
like brian wilson diiiid....*
I'm wearing my spandex jacket
(where's Donald Fagan
when you need him?).
As LeAnn wraps the
velcro-ed elastic band
around me to bind my arms,
I mention that I miss
the good old days
of canvas
and leather straps.
*i'm so sane
it's driving me crazy....*
Time stops
I'm motionless
engage mind wander
*it's so dangerous
you have to sign a waiver...*
embossed positive
and negative
on the massive metal arm
the pluses and minuses
of shooting a carcinogen
at a spot of death
to save my life
*if there's someone you can live without...
then do so....*
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I was happy with that life
time being
but you changed up
started chillen on a different block
you were differently treated with
different clothes
new chain and slang talk
cigarettes lips to fit in//
carcinogen lungs
to impress them with the tar black esophagus compressed in your chest cough
now you walking different too
and them kids got you locked
and even tighter than a *****
I just knew it
when you fronted them up on that block
but if you got shot up
you know they wouldn't have your
back unless it was to steal your coat keys
and wallet leave you ****** dead or not
and hey I'm just saying
you started changing
and I can see this kind of ****
happening when everything around
YOU started changing...
look I don't want you to be suffering
but I try and warn you
about the world we're in
love isn't anger
love is black and blue
come stranger times like
love isn't "who can take the first blow"
love isn't hands around a throat
love isn't here
so don't come back no more.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
i have come to learn that time and time again,
power is grasped by those amoral;
he who holds the sword hides the pen.
we hold the true potential; women and men.
though truth is hidden by those immortal.
i have come to learn that time and time again.
authority: the ultimate carcinogen.
left for dead, the immoral.
he who holds the sword hides the pen.
their mastery beyond my ken,
kept in the shadows, a mortal.
i have come to learn that time and time again.
rise to power, my kin.
take what you were given: a morsel.
he who holds the sword hides the pen.
a revolt comes as punishment, then.
scrawled with ink: a mural.
i have come to learn that time and time again,
he who holds the sword hides the pen.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
You are a model of a modern major failure
A martyr to yourself
Breathing the narcissistic carcinogen
The egos fermentation
Spewing like mayflies from your mouth
Your words hold naught even air
Like the boy who cried wolf
And the bird who mockingly rhymes
You were not perfect
But ****** you were mine!
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
The ember extinguishes,
Imposing darkness.
The pyre's carcinogen
ushers him to move on.
The fragrance teleports him:
Childhood bonfires,
Burning cities,
The end of civilization.
Burn it all down!
So much is lost.
From the fires of rebellion,
regression into tribes.
Among the ashes,
he finds a charred Bible
and quickly hides it.
Demoniacal wailing nearby.
He hurries to his bivouac,
hidden in a cliffside crevasse.
He devours the legible words,
diligently memorizing fragments.
A far off explosion reverberates;
pinned up book pages quake.
He mumbles ***** and Gomorrah
… to ashes … the ungodly.”
Feebly he undresses:
jacket with phoenix insignia,
tattered baseball cap,
and military boots.
His eyes, deeply sunken,
craving to espy hope.
His quivering emaciated frame
lowers unto a cot.
Laying his hoary head to pillow,
Phrases, memories, and regrets
accompany him to the celestial gates;
the ember extinguishes.
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 1:46 PM UTC