"metastasized" poems
over-caffeinated like a maj-gician (the electricians of existence), Matilda sang her morning brew a lullaby as she convinced breakfast not to panic from the pain of the frying pan- "sit quietly, take the pain, feel the burn- SIZzle! soon you'll be a human being and begin your life as a synthetic deity free within the skin of metastasized consciousness."
soon the egg seized in pleasure; a masochistic joy overtook it as yoke splurged from within like ****** ***** during ******* when the gimp has forgotten the safety word, screaming
BANANA
NEW YORK
CODE ORANGE
! ! !
while the perpetrator continues to scream verses from the Bible and Leviticus 1:3; an audiotape of On Being and Nothingness sends chills down the dark-sides spine in a hyperreal realization of the role choice plays in evils mortality.
must we listen while we speak? does reciprocity die in egoic colonization of the African subcontinent of the mind? is this the beginning of an age of autism born within the confines of illuminated rectangles of permissible distance and social hell-frozen-over?
man, you weren't even paying attention.
**** you.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
In the linoleum dungeon
Sparkling swiffer creature
Squirts the floor
Calls polyphemic odors
Opening
And the crazy stench of allspice
Biting lime and draconian breath
Burning the nostril coins
Copper shield bending the cilia
Oven mitts plastered with narcotic grease and decomposing meals
Of yesteryear
Unclear
She speaks between steaming inspirations
Hoo-huh
Exhale the fire
It's'a hotta pasta lasagna
As the helicopters flap their handy rotories
Fast fractal birds
In circumfereferential motion
Cool down our mouths
Ice cubes in the juice
Plop a shot of gin
With that silly child's grin
And the room slowly cants
Begins to spin
As we laugh at the spots we cannot
Pin
Staring at the stellar mountain chains
Thrusted stone
Busted metal
Stabbing up into the sky
Competition
Where is the home beyond the horizon
Where we ate good meals
Not made alone
With parental guidance
As the days were stolen
By the erosive time
That spinning wheel
Well,
It's deep in us now
And the cells metastasized
Realized
That heaven is hell.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
We can never forget September 11, 2001
We will forever remember such a date
A date that will live in infamy
A date that has everything in it:
Sadness, fire, death, destruction and bravery
Heroism, sickness and resilience, except happiness
9/11/2001 is a memorable and a daring date
That changed the world. Things are not seen like
The day before. We have a different perspective
About life and everything under the sun
We learn new ways of mourning, sighing
Fighting, of course new ways of being absolutely resilient
No, we will never forget this fateful day where terrorism
Became a new word. Everybody is talking about the death
Of so many brave first responders: firefighters, policemen
And many others who wear proudly their uniforms
We shall never forget 9/11. We will never forget 9/11
The sacrifices made by the brave civilians who had lost their lives
Are priceless. The eternal flame in our heart cannot be extinguished
We know that everyone in NYC and elsewhere will always
Remember how the world got shocked, stunned by these egregious
And deadly actions perpetrated by a bunch of sick cowards
9/11/2001 is a monument engrained in our brain which will live there
For a very long time. The memories of the braves are metastasized
In our psychic, no one can suppress them without killing us cold
"911" is no longer three numbers but a historic symbol like Pearl Harbor
9/11/2001 is now 18 years old. 18 years of tears, fear, pain and suffering
We shall never forget 9/11. We will remember. We can never forget 9/11.
Copyright © 9/11/2019, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
skirting the rusty rose of a brooch
dangling on canvas bodice as she leans
tightly over me; the waves of wrinkles
on her be-bangled red hands pointing to the
wrong punctuation; this is dream-building
in the fifth grade; don't end the dream
too soon, she gruffs sing-song like
a prize-winning racoon; and still applauds
the bricklaying we so clumsily feign
for our castles in the sky; tho she, too,
dies of cancer in the last year; the tubes at the
very last weaving through the canvas;
something of a final stitch to the making
of a dream; and so i think all dreams in me
they die in darkness and still i wonder
what happens to the crenellated castle
walls i abandoned scores of years and
many As ago; and still we pat our doeeyes
on their infinitile heads and **** our
cynical shacks-by-the-forest-fires back
into our heads, begging beneath the
damp light of early-onset reverie: save
us, won't you, from the stiff stillborn of
dreams our generation lost to the fantasy
of getting what the saddest, dreamless
dollared dupes decree; oh be better yet for me,
my naive sums, and take your brick-laying;
your canvas sheen; your impossible, doubtless
dreams with broach and gnarl; with gruff and
soundless trill; your soulful self metastasized
with every beat
to the happy grave.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
His observant mind held
Strands of coded bonds
Fond of expressions for
Incisive presentations
Of what could be foretold.
He metastasized thought
And tempted his youth,
unraveling behavior
favoring adult endeavors
And here I permit my fist
Beneath my chin in complacency
Statuesque, pondering whether
My decisions are remnants of bloodlines,
Coupled complexes attractive to be subtractive
To my true desires
Whether his dismays maybe in part
To inquiries of adolescent angst
The repetitive cycle remains with
Finding one’s embodiment of identity
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 5:54 AM UTC
I stood at her bedside quietly.
She looked peaceful.
She looked happy.
I held my siblings' shoulder as they cried.
I knew it would be hard for them.
I would be there for them.
It was just twenty minutes ago.
I had looked over, her oxygen tube was no longer moving.
Not in the rhythmic way it does when she breathes.
It was still, still as stone.
I swallowed thickly before speaking aloud.
My mom was quick to get up to make sure.
I hesitated before following her over.
I now waited for my little sister to take a breath.
Her sobs racked her body and I rubbed her shoulder.
They'd never lost someone before.
It wouldn't be goodbye forever,
but for a while.
They both said goodbye with sobs.
I stayed there quietly.
She looked tranquil.
No pain.
No worry.
~
I was the only child to attend the viewing.
She looked cold this time.
Pale, a little blue.
And yet still so beautiful.
She was only in a cardboard box.
I'd wished we brought nail polish.
I believe my my mom said goodbye there.
I stayed quiet.
I never said goodbye.
I wish I would have just said goodbye.
I wish she would've taken more pictures.
I wish I knew more about her.
I wish she never got cancer.
I wish I would have just said goodbye.
I wish she never smoked.
I wish the cancer never metastasized.
I wish she was here.
I wish I would have just said goodbye.
I wish I didn't have to take care of her with my mom at 15.
I wish she never became weak.
I wish she stayed healthy.
I wish I would have just said goodbye.
I wish I would have cried.
I wish I would have felt.
I wish I would have just said goodbye.
Goodbye grandma.
I love you.
But it isn't goodbye forever.....
Right?
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 5:57 PM UTC
It seems a scant few weeks ago,
as the leaves turned red and gold,
You left us for retirement;
at the Jersey shore I'm told.
Envious co-workers wished you well,
with cards and gifts besides.
We did not know, nor did you know
that a tumor lured inside.
Inoperable, the Doctors say,
radiation will be tried.
When cancer has metastasized
time isn't on your side.
I'm grateful that you had the chance
to see your girl a bride.
Your doting husband doubtless hoped
to spend years by your side.
We're still hoping for some miracle;
some treatment yet untried-
To counter a prognosis grim
so Death may be denied.
When golden years are leaden days,
where morphine spells relief
The game of Life in Sudden Death
will likely come to grief.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
to cut. to open up veins and let the reddened river rush, releasing me. to have the sobering throb of sliced skin dull the agonizing ache from within. it was my little secret. self-harming is a taboo subject. viewed as having no control over emotions or thoughts...well, i guess they weren't wrong. in the davis household, we do no have room for feelings. we were trained not to bring unpleasantries to the table because heaven forbid someone became uncomfortable. heaven forbid if someone caught a glimpse of the tiresome face behind the painted porcelain.
in middle school, the sickness started. the tumor grew inside my chest, making the task unbearably difficult to just simply live. impossible to drag myself out of bed because i couldn't find one ******* reason to pick myself up and face the day. it metastasized to consume my body. everywhere the darkness touched. blinded my eyes and deafened my ears to where i was left alone with it.
i became bitter due to the obvious state i was in. scars and fresh gashes striped my wrists and legs, razorblades and knifes left on the nightstand. few would ask and fewer i would tell, offering half-assed coverups. but they bought the weak stories because if they didn't, they would become involved. heaven forbid. and my parents didn't notice a single thing as i was destroying myself before their eyes. all i needed was for someone to reach out. someone to care enough to tell me to stop. to grab the blade from my hand, look into my swollen eyes, and tell me that i deserved better. that i was worth more. to say that they loved me. they took me to therapy because i needed to talk when i have been screaming this whole time, they just never listened.
so uncomfortable in my sobriety, i searched for any escape. anything to distract me from myself. and i sought for love, because i thought that was what was going to save me. but all paths, rocky and disastrous, led to dead ends and i found myself more alone than ever. i needed love. but i looked for it in all the wrong places. i would not find love in the stranger laying next to me. i would not find love in the meaningless touch of another. i couldn't. i had to find it in myself.because the love of yourself offers the sturdy foundation on which others can build. without that, the wall that they had constructed would be in vain, collapsing with the slightest gust of wind.
we were taught that to be alone is a failure when in fact, the real failure is being unable to be alone.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
love is a cancer
love is a cancer because
even though you feel optimistic about your prognosis
even though you still have delusions about your (im)mortality
cancer is cancer
and with cancer, there is only one way this can end
love is a cancer
because you hear the stories
you see the victims
but you always roll your eyes and say
"that'll never be me"
but it will be you
love is a cancer
and i am the patient
love is a cancer
and i met you in a support group
we commiserated over our shared illness
then overcame it together
hand in hand, we thought we were safe
but love is a cancer
and you will never be safe
love is a cancer
and cancer is cruel
as you regained your strength, i lost mine
your love is a tumor
at first it was so small
i didn't notice a difference
but with each new time you let me down
that tumor inside me grew and grew
until one day it overtook me
there was nothing we could do
love is a cancer
like all illnesses
you think it can be treated
i sat through long hours of radiation
i sat soggy from the chemo
my lips, chapped and faded
longed for your sweet kiss
even thought i felt it once-
but alas, your touch was only a dream
a side effect from my killing savior
love is a cancer
and my love, my darling-
it has metastasized
love is a cancer
and i was the patient
in just five months, i have grown
jealous, rail-thin, and prone to paranoia
a shell of who i am
who i used to be
now i am stuck here, useless and helpless
i lack the weakness to hand over my life
i lack the strength to say goodbye
five months ago, i was optimistic
since of course i am invincible
but i am not invincible
because cancer is cancer
and with cancer, there is only one way this will end
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:37 PM UTC
"when was the last time you were truly happy?" she asked, finally looking up from her notebook. making eye contact, i discovered i much preferred her nose buried in whatever she's writing.
i looked away to break the tension, but that only did so much. her beady eyes bored into my soul, trying to pick apart the girl that sat before her.
it would be an exaggeration to say that i never felt true happiness. i'm sure when i was young, naïve, and unscathed by the world, that i was a happy child. however, to be perfectly honest, i could not remember a specific instance.
in middle school the sickness started and grew inside my chest. concreting my heart in its paralyzing notions. it metastasized to consume my body, everywhere the darkness touched. blinded my eyes and deafened my ears to where i was left alone with it. and it owned my life.
granted, there were days where the sun had managed to peak through the thick blanket of clouds. and there were times where i would smile, i would laugh, i would forget about life for a while. but its presence was constant, following me wherever i went. when i would get lost in daydreams, it was always there to tug me back to reality.
when was the last time i was truly happy?
"i honestly don't know."
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
I read your obit yesterday,
The Wake, the Church ,
the whole nine yards.
I never got to say goodbye
before you ventured off to God.
Strange to see your name in print.
In black and white,it seemed so odd.
a casualty of carcinoma
metastasized from a black mole.
Are you a star within the night
looking down from high above?
or are you hiding in the ground
awaiting the last trumpet's sound.
Was your life all that you'd hoped
while, like a snowflake,
you fluttered down.
through time to eternity
to briefly linger
then be gone.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
In the bowels of a prison, in a tomb of concrete, for twenty three hours a day-
The “Teflon Don” was alone all that time, free only to scream, curse, or pray.
To seek refuge in madness most men would resort, but that was not John Gotti’s way.
He was chained when he showered; by the guards he called cowards,
he saw the Sun seldom these days.
His mind oft would drift back to better days at the Bergin hunt and fish-
Playing cards with friends and cronies who indulged his every wish..
He recalled how he rose to be Don; it was a blood drenched throne,
but, unlike his predecessor, he would die slowly and alone
Cancer took his lower jaw; he gummed what food he ate.
Four grey walls surrounded him, the door an iron gate.
His tumor soon metastasized; that death was imminent was plain.
Although John Gotti was in agony he took nothing for the pain.
He would not chance a mental lapse, a confession overheard.
He would not give the ******** that; he would not say a word.
He died choking on his own blood, his corpse lay still and cold.
It was then, and only then, the Feds released their hold
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
Today I sat down to write a note
That turned into a novel
That morphed into a saga
That grew into a multi volume series,
And I finally lifted my pen mid word,
Done with it but
Not done.
Today I sat down to pen a single feeling,
But it metastasized into
A whirling, swirling ball of
Confused and jumbled emotions,
And I stopped mid metaphor,
Done with it but
Not done.
Today I sat down to be simple,
But I soon realized
Nothing is ever simple
Or easy,
Or single faceted,
Or straightforward,
And I halted mid thought,
Done with it but
Not done.
Today I think I'm going to step away,
And not put pen to paper for another day.
For I think, for now, I am done.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:21 PM UTC
They say
That no two loves are the same
That is probably the truest statement I have ever heard
I loved you so hard I gave you all of my pieces and left none for myself
You are a cancer that I wanted
A cancer that started in my mind and metastasized to my heart
I told you that I could read you like an open book
then I told you I didn't know why
That was a lie
It's because you're an open book and I've read and re-read all of your pages and I've memorized every single syllable of every word up to the pages we started to write together
I don't need to memorize those pages
Those are the pages that are so ingrained that no amount of alcohol, no amount of drugs, no amount of time could ever hope to wear away the carving of our pages on the walls of my heart
Now all I want to do is feel numb to this pain
Like you have felt for so long
Because of someone else
I use old coping mechanisms for today's hurt
They don't work
this pain is too new
I want to get so unbelievably drunk that I forget what your name tastes like
It's funny because
You're mother was always right
She knew we weren't ready
Why the **** does your mother always have to be right
Now
I'll forever see you in the face of every girl I meet
And I don't want to see any face other than yours
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
For me we it
comes realizing later
that Chris Cornell is gone
same as Dad but different still
we have our Garden
of Sound with weeds sprouting against
the grim Cutter hoping
for a missed experienced
Maybe the refugee's trauma
have dried all the tears on
lonely crowded airfields
of a long ago Vietnam seeding
salt from a Grandmother, mother,
father, aunts and uncles,
paladins in our child eye dry
because of the stampeding Thestrals
we shouldn't see
And now almost 50 we know
better the slings and arrowheads
of fortune the calcifying currency
souls make by roughing the round edges
of damning tears scattered like petals
over littered cigarettes killing
us softly because they've metastasized
from intellectualized Lung ****
to a flowering carcinoma
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
My lovers womb became chiseled with scorn
Beneath photographs and circle kisses
You had nestled another in
Under your sternum interlaced with valleys of cartilage, your ribs became a landscape
I had journeyed across your spine
Baptizing the hollows of your delirium, ending up with warm bruises
On sleepless nights when clouds where corpses, I held on
I had been your eyes when whiskey, would not allow you to see
Decomposing mentally, metastasized into my existence
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
My yard was always filled with roots
knotted in unconceivable ways,
always stemming back to the pines
from which they came.
The grandest gripping roots
lead to a twenty-five foot red pine
which stood directly next to the
smaller of its kind.
Its arms, always protected
the younger from snow, sleet
and the blistering sun
during the summer months.
But on a distinct fall day,
the pine’s roots began to retreat
back to its feet, slowly slithering away
from where the others lay.
It's branches did the same,
descending down to the trunk,
rapidly wilting, it's caressing hands
no longer kept the promise once took.
That eve, in the bend of a bare branch lean,
necrosis from outside influence,
festering fungi and insects,
bubbled an unexpected illness.
Creeping, crawling, parasitic pressure
cracked bark and tore ramus connections.
Giving way, its once mighty arms,
crashed and smashed falling apart.
No one knew of the metastasized wound,
only that their protector was there
in decent health, in loom of
the discovery of the crude truth.
The passage of time
consumed the pine,
it's contents returned to the ground,
absorbed by its younger kind.
My yard is still tangled in roots,
not a change since the fall day of decay.
The pines continue to grow,
with lessons taught from their mother's bones.
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 10:50 AM UTC
I wonder if he knew I was there.
My father, that is.
We were not very close at that time.
Typical things
Hair too long
Wasting energy on foolish things
And on foolish friends.
He worked too hard for nothing I wanted
And I worked too hard at nothing.
Words grew sparse with increasing distance.
When the time came that I was not quite a man
And he dwindling away.
I would go to the hospital on my lunch break,
Creep into his room.
At first he put on the brave face
"Gonna fight this bear"
But the bear was tireless and metastasized.
Often when I arrived, ***** and sweat stained
He would be asleep
And so I would sit nearby
And if he woke we would talk.
I would encourage him to eat
And he'd say "I'll try".
But often my time would pass
His eyes still closed.
And I would creep back out.
Decades later, I wonder
Did he know how many hours I spent
Wordless and waiting.
Unaware of what I needed to say
And believing there was nothing worth hearing.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
toward thee spunky gal,
whose impregnation and debut appearance
way to brief a tale for Aesop
cuz, (umpteen iterations recounted),
out the birth canal aye did bop
analogously compared
to a mealy mouthed measly crop
a spindly tangle of arms and legs
radiated (starfish like)
dangled and would uselessly drop
like a raggedy ann male counterpart
(raggedy andy - how original)
with limbs that didst flop
and tis no small wonder, thyself as one
newborn baby body electric
easily confused with bony glop,
which skimpy weight
leant convenience as sigh grew older
to alternate jumping
(ala pogo stick mode) and hop
from one skinny spindle shank leg to another,
and manifold orbitz whip
sawing round the sun
bore witness to puny laughable specimen
of a nerdy lad, who (in hindsight)
grew long straggly hair,
which NO ONE (except me) could touch,
nor most definitely NOT lop
off (this fetish) compensation
for very slight physique
in dewed time begot
pencil necked geek milksop,
now at an age prowl lix sing viz
dragging, crawling, battling...
slight abdominal bulge
unlike widower octogenarian biological pop
whose once strapping superman
like build atrophying (sad sight)
since grim reaper put objectionable stop
upon head of harriet harris,
whereat two and a half score years
her longevity did top.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
now, comb may tooth how zen,
sans eight plus ten
'twill be thirteen yars
when me late mum agonizingly relinquished
an indomitable loo ving life,
which strong fighting spirit
(spittle and vinegar) yen
reached a juncture,
(sans metastasized ovarian cancer)
forewent heroic measures, which ken
not avail bottled anger within this sole son
telling thee, he didst love ye
never communicating NOR often!
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
Dear Dear:
I heard you're not well, and I'm sorry as hell. Nobody, not me, not anyone we know, could see it coming. Was it metastasized kindness with a primary worry; some say eroded patience and promises, a tightening of throat, are systemic symptoms of a body of hope. I can send you the quote:
*Drs. say excessive and extensive heart
failure is brought on by an over-exposure
to caring, and hence, is co-existent with
the rapacious spread of the disease.
Fortunately we've isolated the hosts.*
I was sorry as hell to hear you're not well, and I asked,
Why you, not another?
But your immune to such an infectious question.
And Dear, I'm sad to say, there's no remedy. You're stricken with being a mother.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC
He’d been away for any number of years,
Days cascading over the spillway of time
Into pools of weeks, oxbows of months,
And though the town was much as he remembered it
(Though a little more tattered and careworn:
Another broken windowpane here,
A wall in grave need of paint there,
One or two more storefronts gone to plywood)
The cemetery was all but labyrinth to him,
A corn maze of granite and narrow drives,
The plots having metastasized, the stones having spread
Like so much crownvetch overpowering the simple grass,
But he’d been able, after any number of false-starts,
Uncounted instances of double-backs and do-overs
To locate his father’s marker
(The man gone some forty years now,
Taken by…well, who knows what
His mother, stunned by the prospect
Of having to step into the dual role
As nurturer and breadwinner,
Too stunned to even think of requesting an autopsy.)
He’d come, ostensibly, to make his peace
(Whatever that hackneyed phrase entailed)
But he’d ended up, if not as mute as the stone he faced,
No more than a cow-country Caliban,
Haltingly sputtering bits and bobs of half-phrases
Concerning the implacability of accidents, the vagaries of chance
The coffin-lid limits on mere men and women.
He’d given up the ghost, finally,
And as the daylight slipped away on the bumpy old horizon
He’d simply brushed some dried bird guano from the gravestone,
Then picked the dead bits from the flowers
Doing their level best to hold on
In the urn he’d wrestled from his mother’s ancient station wagon
Two, perhaps three, days ago
Before settling back into the car to try to divine the way
Back to the main road
(He’d found it in surprisingly short order,
And perhaps a quarter-mile or so down the road,
He’d come upon a small rabbit,
Frozen mid-lane by his headlights,
Finding himself in a world not of his making
Not knowing whether to flip or fly;
He’d missed it by mere chance, nothing more,
And he wondered if the poor thing
Would be so lucky with the cars behind him.)
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 12:39 PM UTC
An onomatopoeia
From another time,
And yet metastasized into this age
Of silent computation—
Faster than thought.
Seamless auditory stimulation
Permeates;
Many cannot go without a soundtrack
In which to willfully drown.
Click...whirrr...
Another ubiquitous day dawns;
The moon falls and the sun rises
And the bright little creature
Emerges from the darkness
To end the oblivion,
To replace,
To put an end to the silent pain.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 5:54 PM UTC
Flashing grasp of an idea
Before our youths were ever cashed in.
Held onto our chips, played close to the vest
in snow.
You were never enough sleeping,
And I guess I was just dreaming
of passing
ships
in the night
and your signal lights
aglow.
...in the foam...
Adventure was calling a heart slow to age,
the same as it had back in our young Old Days.
So, some things don't change.
I remember, in the Winter,
Trudging quick to campus coffee shop.
Your wet hair frozen, and my breath in that
moment...
Springtime flash of our confessions
Just as our youths were getting cashed in.
Released all our chips we'd held close to our chests.
Let go.
We were lovers for a season
'til a sudden Summer leaving
a passing
of boats
in heat
put our oars down
and we rowed.
That feeling was calling my heart--"Time to age!"
Still falling, like it had in our young Old Days.
I guess some things don't change.
*Along the way,
You must have fossilized inside me.
Lightning on waves--
Metastasized my bad dreams.
And, over time, see that I was a distraction
No traction,
No chance,
and no time for empty grief...
...it's only brief, love,
still I did sink*.
Aug 7, 2020
Aug 7, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC