"tumors" poems
Look at me
My skin
Has dealt with a lot
I have lived through
Tumors and attacks
Cuts and bruises from me
Bruises from him
My poor skin
In the end
This damage is
All for naught
Because
*"Scars are only **** on guys..."*
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
for you, we bundle into the car,
the littlest
(half my brother and twice my nuisance)
and the middlest
(14 going on favorite)
the bitterest
(only girl and pen-in-hand)
and the biggestest
(20 years
of bombastic nonsense)
30 minutes and four cornfields later
he'll start.
"i have to ***
"there's a bottle up there, dad."
"dad, i have to ***
"dad."
"dad."
"dad."
and he's going to *** in that ******* bottle
which will inevitably stay in the car for the remaining 8 and a half hours,
sloshing and yellow
too dangerously close to the color of something
you would actually drink.
the two youngest
will get into some sort of argument
some sort of argument that i will intervene in.
"shut up!" he'll say.
"chill out!" i'll shout.
"you chill out!"
and my father and my stepmother
will eye from the front seat
until one of them turns around
("relax, madeline!" sharply).
and then the oldest
like clockwork
will act like he knows more than he does about something
(my father will just chuckle, but i'll begin, "bullsh-" i'll begin, but my stepmother will hiss,
"madeline!" as if i've killed somebody
even though the 8-year-old curses even worse than i do).
he'll make a face at me
and i'll make a face at him.
the littlest will
inevitably
stomp on my seatbelt about 30 times a second
which i will not be able to stand,
and we'll get into an argument which will turn into me
versus
the whole car
(afterwards, much stewing,
and resentfully cranking my ipod up as loud as it will go).
9 hours and 12 thousand cliff-faces later
we'll get there.
we'll make it.
we'll only be
a little worse for the wear.
we will be swept up by our twelve billion aunts
our nine billion uncles
and our three billion cousins,
like we always are.
someday something will be missing.
first it was your back,
and the postponement,
and eventual cancellation of our trip.
then it was your surgeries
(why weren't they working?)
and then it was a series of words i don't understand
stage
inoperable
3
cancerous mass
lung
malignant
radiation
therapy chemo
you may crumple in
on that blackness inside you,
that's eating you alive
one lung at a time,
pushing,
on your back,
until you can't even stand.
the fabric of our family
is plucked by this
disease.
this is my poem, my plea
for you
and for us,
that you not pull into the blackness,
and that you fight the tumors and the tests
and that you win.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
This is what she looks like when she's sad:
The human condition effective immediately.
Winter shades shift side to side,
exploding out of each iris.
Skin falling off,
when lunging forward to kiss me.
Fingernail daggers dig into my pores.
I'll bleed under her fingernails,
if she'll drag them down my torso
until her knees click the floor.
This is her tongue inside of my mouth:
We taste each other before we waste each other.
Hip bones parallel and our eyes rubbing shoulders,
my hands surfing her rib cage
and it's all the rage because she moans.
And when she moans,
color tones orbit around her head.
Planetary tumors dancing around her skull;
jump roping with her hair,
eating morals and removing plurals.
Those are her lips around me.
Her head moves up and down
but her eyes focus on me.
She makes eye contact
and I empty my dreams
into her mouth.
We are a public forum.
I ache with alcohol poisoning
and liberal undertones.
The terrain that is my face
bleeds oils that would lubricate
the axle of the car that she drove
into the tree
that we carved our name into.
Come back to me.
I miss you so much.
I watched you die.
I watched you die
and there was nothing I could do.
They told me that she wouldn't make it.
They told me that she might make it.
My hand gripped at blood stained blanket.
I think she said my name under the air mask.
I could tell if she saw me;
her eyes rolled back into her head
after she gazed a thousand yards away
into the field of black
that sheltered the tall grass
that we would chase each other through
and get lost in
as we got lost in each other.
I love you! I ******* love you!
My back, a membrane coil
that rises my stiff neck
that cares my head full of memories.
I turn on the light and you're not there next to me.
I put my hand on your copy of The Thornbirds
and know that you've read it more than the notes
I leave in your inbox,
hoping that it'll say that you have seen it.
Walking to your grave,
I am a darkness that the abyss has swallowed
and I have followed myself into nothingness
that is such bliss
that I forget
your kiss.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Nervousness sets in
As I await the news
And doctors disagree
About their medical muse.
Confusion swarms high
As answers are not clear
And possibilities come to my mind
Cancer and tumors, the greatest fear.
Anxiety bubbles up
As the next appointment comes
And I don’t know what I want;
My thoughts are going numb.
Sometimes I think the possibilities of health are shrinking
And then I realize… that’s just wishful thinking.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Things sometimes fall apart
Among sisters and brothers,
No matter what they once were.
Childhood picnics and dreamy games,
Memories of trips with Dad,
Since Mom was tired of us.
We would climb Appalachian peaks
Or drive to look at the Mayflower.
Every summer there was a golden week
A lakeside cottage and all-day swims
In crystal water, becoming mermaids.
But time passes and bitterness accrues.
Imagined slights grow like slow tumors,
Never excised but nurtured by some.
I go to college and am freed
From the poison of ignorant rage,
From the creeping depression left
Like diesel fog on an endless floor.
Four or five years of delight pass
With only hints here or there
Of a sibling’s misery at home.
Of a once close sister, Maggie,
Who is ignored and never loved
By any man she pursues.
She blames me for it, for reasons
I have yet to fathom.
Of a brother, Francis, deluded, drugged,
Steals the family car in a rage
And drives to New York City.
Of Deirdre, the middle sister,
Whose friend who knows men who feed
On her ignorance and rebellion.
Only Susannah tries to rise above
The maelstrom of misery.
I send her to a school far away
And she sheds despair, at least.
Decades drawl, children are born to us,
While the bridge between us, obscured,
Sags and frays under weight of rancor.
Christmas dinners and birthday parties
Turn into chores, invitations kept as scores.
Petty grudges, like acid, sever the bridge
At last, all ties are abandoned.
When we are all grown and scattered,
No one speaking to anyone else,
Unaware, uncaring about the others.
Only Susannah visits me and smiles,
With no ulterior plan for insane revenge,
Or accusations for errant slights.
Her once dark hair is grizzled and wild
And her girlish skin now creased.
But her treacle eyes, “black aggies”,
I used to call them, still shine.
Only Susannah writes a letter,
Wishing us well and
Healing scars made by others,
Returning the word “family”.
To my basket of small treasures,
I carry with me
Into the twilight.
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 10:52 AM UTC
The blasphemy
That overtakes my
Thoughts
Was put there by
Demons and
Kept there by
Saints in order
To destroy me slowly.
Demons upon demons
Have entered and left
Without a trace
Leaving negativity
Like tumors on my
Brain
Inoperable
Said the Saints
And they left me too
Now I have nothing
Inside of me
Leading me towards
The banks of the
Cloudy river
I have nothing leading
Me towards the bottle of
Sleeping pills on
My dresser
I have nothing to stop me
I have nothing
I have
Me
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
I have a special interest in telling about my colonoscopy.
The doc cheerful, secure in his specialty, colon cancer being
the second leading cause of cancer death after lung tumors.
They can snip the precancerous polyps right out of you during the test.
At first the doc gave me the statistics but having paid 25 bucks for this
interview
I decided to make him explain the science. He was most comfortable
describing the physical architecture of adenomatous v. hyperplastic
polyps
but what about cell structure I said. He was vague about genes and
hormones,
I could have been chatting with an Electrolux salesman.
I wasn’t worried although my *** was burning.
Everybody dies, everybody, even Whitman and Emerson, so I browse
models for dying—
mine are middlebrow, saddlebow—John Wayne in The Shootist, Paul
Newman in Hombre—or hagiography
Plath her head stuck in an oven, Hemingway who ate his shotgun.
Anyway I was upbeat flirting with the nurse, a muse who has seen it all
before,
acting tough, which isn’t actually an act
you do your prep and say your prayers.
I thought I’d be in and out **** as you probably already know
the prep for this procedure is worthy of Gandhi. A day of fasting,
clear fluids only, and constant voiding.
You arrive at the hospital one spiritual chicken.
I reflected it can’t hurt, lose a little weight, remember who you are
without so much **** and flesh between you and the natural world.
Snipping polyps is like taking electrons to a lower quantum energy level,
nearer the nucleus, with fasting and ****** abstinence.
The art of total presence and abstinence, dependence on the Other for
future existence.
May 15, 2024
May 15, 2024 at 7:09 AM UTC
Technology is taking over.
It is making me and
The natural world sick.
Please help.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
Five four three two one,
Fire spews,
Flames violently shoot out of the golden boosters,
Cold ice breaking off the shell,
The white noise fills the air,
The ground shakes with panic,
And liftoff,
The manmade seraph lifts into the sky,
The Golden Flame forcing it further up,
We watch not with excited eyes,
But with sad hearts and long faces,
We know,
We know today is the last day this bird will fly,
We have slain an angel,
We have slain American Patriotism,
We have slain ourselves,
The Space Shuttle may just have been a chemical reaction lifting mass into the sky,
But it let us explore,
It let us discover space,
The bitter, beautiful darkness that surrounds and blankets the planet,
And now we have told her she must die,
Regressive politics turning into a malignancy against mankind,
Killing the Human spirit,
Spreading,
Cancerous tumors mark landforms on the map,
Goodbye,
My Dear Space Shuttle,
My technological love,
You always inspired me,
It's my turn now.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:19 AM UTC
i fall and ascend in a sea vantablack
spiral light
fire ghosts and ice
that cut the soul to pieces
like scissors
that split rabbits
industry of a hissing creation
polluted altar of sleeping lakes
and scythe
bludgeon and howitzer
prods of push and pull
in a grindhouse
necropolis of craters
scattering satanic eggs and tumors
i am here born to you thin of bone
mother of catastrophes
on a colossal ball of scab and callous
that moves sonorous dazzling shapes
careening through
ephemera workhorse torches
of doom
you fill me with knots of terror
and desperate dreams of stairway wings
veils and glimmers
resolutions dissolving
petaled apertures of desire
and night whispers
in a spider web of sonic bulls
before undertows gravity
i was vibrant
but then i died into the rock ash of earth
they called it my birthday
my parents with party hats and balloons
blinked fetters
against nights of granite and stone
i got deader still
until i was nothing
but an imagineless gob of mud and breath
an eye looking out
behind red nerve forest fires
and tears shook tambourines
down heavy lashes
cascaded fluttering tassels
i am born to you mother of senile seas
citadel of shattered glass
in a slate cube of cyclones
mute and screaming
my fate deep shock
encased in mausoleums led nautilus
blatting hells jaundiced shriek
Pluto conjunct Saturn
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
You’d never guess
By eavesdropping
To the vapid colloquialisms
Of your neighbors, your co-workers
That 5 open sores fester upon our mother’s face,
5 gyres,
(even the word is disgusting),
of floating plastic,
tangle and strangle the warm wombs of our seas,
stretch out at the horizons like blankets of melanoma.
Livid and neon infection
Drips, seeps, spreads from Fukushima,
Genociding the Pacific—3,000 nautical miles
Devoid of breath or heartbeat,
Save a lonely whale with tumors
Full of hot dog coupons and carpet cleaning flyers.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
Health anxiety.
You google one thing and it says another.
You have a headache and it says its cancer.
Countless trips to your family doctor.
The test was negative, you will recover.
Everything is fine but you’re feeling awkward.
Maybe everything IS fine, perhaps you’re like an actor.
Acting out the symptoms you should get an oscar.
Sue me for feeling like somethings not right, get me a lawyer.
To everyone around me, i’m like a destroyer.
I need to rebuild my life from being an over reactor.
Theres a fine line between normal worry and anxiety.
Theres a fine line between being labelled from society.
Theres a fine line between being sick and being healthy.
But even those who are wealthy are not protected from being unhealthy.
And thats where this fear has developed.
Knowing the highest of classes still are not protected.
CEO’s can get cancer.
The president can get Alzheimer's.
Investors can get tumors.
Is it really so peculiar that I fear that this will occur.
Occur in me? Effect my family? Increase mortality?
Maybe i’m not a clinical case of a hypochondriac, but I feel that sometimes I can be.
Maybe i’m not a maniac, but I know I over worry.
These thoughts don’t keep me up at night, but when I’m sick I always think...
What if its this, what if its that, what if this thing can **** me.
But I guess thats just normal anxiety.
Evolutionary instinct.
Our human kind won’t go extinct.
I don’t need to talk this out with a shrink.
So this cold is lasting more than a few days, maybe i’ll just go to a doctor.
Stop fearing that this is the end, see someone and you’ll feel better.
You can get sick from being stressed, or even change from weather.
Its not strange if you catch a cold, no need to worry it won’t last forever.
When you feel like the doctor is wrong, please try to remember.
A runny nose isn’t cancer, forgetting to check the mail isn't alzheimers, and a headache isn’t a tumor.
Those are all just internet rumours.
Google isn’t your doctor.
Worrying isn’t hypochondria, no need to add that to your self diagnoses list.
While disease is a real thing, worrying is the real *****
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
I see the commercials
for osteoarthritis.
And mentally curse this age of awareness
Where we, the audience
are forced to see our frail mortality . . .
One in three! ONE IN THREE!
Mocks the voice on T.V.
And suddenly my chest fills
with invisible cancers
cholesterol, and tumors
While diabetes races through my veines.
I stagger from the room.
Joints now rusted with a touch of arthritis.
My breath wheezes from the asthma
I never had until this moment.
My arteries harden like boa constrictors.
And I fall to the floor - breaking a hip as I go down.
My memory fades under Alzheimer's wrath.
While glaucoma darkens my vision.
And ravaging Obesity, consumes my soul.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
We are the people we are
Far from the people we should be
Humor makes up the difference
In every uncomfortable instance
Humor I must know
To soften the blow
And make life enjoyable
Humor is always employable
Negativity carelessly creeps
From somewhere deep
I feel tragedy
Grabbing me
I must rhetorically escape
These problems will deflate
Once I receive a joke
After taking a ****
With familiar folks
We're all somewhat stand-up comedians
In front of our friends
The pros have no way of seeing them
So specificity we lend
It can be trite and true
Or bright and new
Curing the blues
To help get you through
To keep from constantly imagining
The endless amount of tragedy
I must have a sense of humor
To ignore the hectic rumors
Or the life ending tumors
Or the treacherous suitors
My only tools are words
And all my words are tools
Turning sages into fools
If they want to bring me down
My words can steal their crown
The albatross around my naked neck
Is my greatest source of comedy
Adding perspective to a stacked deck
Turning drama into Dramamine
Putting on a mask like Halloween
When the darkness follows me
Humor keeps me from wallowing
In my own self pity
I'd rather feel giddy
I hate myself so much sometimes
Humor can help remove that grime
Not getting rid of it completely
But not letting it cut so deeply
It's the only thing that can treat me
When life decides to beat me
I respond by feasting
On pain
And ******** out harmless humor
Which drains
The sensation of being a loser
That feeling you get when your friends laugh
That feeling you get when your friends clap
Like violent gunshots in the distance
Humor alleviates the agony of existence
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 2:39 AM UTC
I am the child of faceless night,
Born of a union of mere flesh.
I am the bane of garish light,
Born to voice a thousand cries.
As the tyrannical sun sets,
As the benevolent darkness takes over,
I lend my ears to pleas of the mute,
My footsteps swift and my movements light.
Cloaked by deception, myth and legend,
I am the faceless God of Death.
Hidden by lies, tales and fables,
I am the bearer of infinite names.
In times of Eclipse, when order falls,
When the avarice of a few prey on other lives,
When Justice, the blind, mute and dumb wretch turns away it eyes,
I don my mask, the son of chaos and fear.
Although bards pen my tale as one of a hero's,
I suffer no delusions, I know I am a psychopath.
I am not a part of God's great plan,
I am not an instrument of his divine will.I am the mere manifestation of human rage,
Softened by the plight of my kin.
All I know is that some men deserve to die,
And much like Him, in whose image I was made,I feel powerful with each life I take.
The thrill as my knife bleeds out the life in them,
The rush which courses through my body as I remove these social tumors,
Is far greater than the soft caress of lust.
Thus, I'd **** only to stay alive.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
a pale night
two more estranged
in the passing of time forgotten
promises mistimed
and eternity can end in an instant
a sudden death to tumors long malignant
(let us remember the error of our ways,
the taste of blood when suckling an open wound)
it's new nihility embodied
and shortness of breath
when looking at night's pearl eye
drown out in stillness
double-time, my heart
frantic, my lungs
so beautiful and toxic
our morning flower dies
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
in a lobby, i sit and i look out.
take my glasses off, stare at
the fuzzy reflections through
the window glare.
count the dead flies in tiled
4x4 ceiling lights.
one more day, and i'll
drive home. but these couch
patterns catch my eyes
and the shadows dazzle in
the corner.
i see nothing.
i look around and it is finally
still, but still, i see nothing.
beat, broke, bones, body.
be gone, be me, catch my breath.
exit sign crooked, french door bent.
tiles and tumors, i sink into the sofa.
it's stress, it's the lack of sleep,
it's all because i let myself go.
winter's woe, dry hands,
bloodied nose.
strangers smile.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
What of that is me that is so beautifully splayed against the cold tin tray beneath the light of the surgeon who is splitting me open.
What of that is not me who is the nurse, helping remove the blemishes and tumors that make the unrecognizable body mangled.
What of that situation makes this so uncannily familiar that all I do is try to change the person I am to be when I hear God sigh once more at my attempt to, again, change myself.
I hear the words,
"Love yourself,"
As if I hadn't already tried but the parts that I have attempted to nurture already lay in the bin of flesh the surgeon has already removed.
I could tell you that I was the surgeon but really,
Self-consciously,
I could not.
I say I could not because of the way the surgeons eyes resembled of those who pick me apart,
Also known as society.
I am not happy with myself,
I am an ever changing chameleon to the people I choose to bring apart of my life as they chisel me down to who and what they prefer.
I am not the color blue any longer for that represented his eyes,
I am not the color pink as my friend used as a disguise,
I am not the color black for that I realize,
I was once that.
So I lay here splayed on this cold tin tray,
Picked apart by the vultures who deem worthy and those who do not.
Do not tell me to love myself when I all know is to be a sponge of the people who pour toxic waters into my skin and I wear it like plastic wrap covering me in all of the wrong places.
I am no longer in control of my own strings that hang me to this life like a noose wrapped around my throat as I struggle to breathe and dance for an audience who no longer enjoys my company but my suffering.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
The chemo makes you tired at first,
So you tend to sleep the day of treatment.
But throughout the week,
The radiation takes its toll.
I watch it slowly unfurl inside of you.
Your joints ache like there are embers between the bones,
And your belly fills with hot, heavy lead,
And your tonsils swell with fluid,
And your ******* traitorous with tumors, are sore and bruised.
This is a pain that eats at you:
Your nerves, your patience, your kind words.
You’re a ***** Vicious and unrepentant. It hurts.
I become petty and spiteful,
Convinced you are determined to make me suffer with you.
You tell me that I don’t care about you anymore.
And I ask you why you can’t appreciate the things I do for you more.
But today,
You showed me how your hair had lost most of its ***** curls,
The follicles soft and preparing for departure,
And you cried because your wig, while pretty, didn’t look like you.
I can only hold your swollen hand
And promise to draw your eyebrows for you.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 1:16 AM UTC
The headlights blaze,
a horn honks,
I look at the traffic light, I wait,
at a signal, in a traffic jam,
stuck.
Soldiers storm a university,
in a book a dog dies,
a girl fights tumors in her *******
the world turns,
and in a traffic jam, I remain
stuck.
Later in the night,
in my bed, I lie scrolling
Instagram stories follow one another,
a quick progression:
outrage on an atrocity turns and
becomes 40% Sale on a fashion brand, turns and
becomes the best biryani in town, turns and
becomes a friend at a pub, turns and
becomes my office desk, turns and
becomes an empty page, turns and
becomes a traffic jam, turns and
does not become anything, and I remain
stuck.
Jan 14, 2020
Jan 14, 2020 at 6:55 AM UTC
Why does it happen to me?
Did the accident also give me a brain tumor?
The most common symptoms of brain tumors include headaches; numbness or tingling in the arms or legs; seizures, memory problems; mood and personality changes; balance and walking problems; nausea and vomiting; changes in speech, vision, or hearing.
I have all except seizures and nausea & vomiting.
I am already on Sodium Valproate and Valproic Acid controlled release tablets which are given to brain tumour patients as well.
My psychiatrist was so scared while asking my dad the last time we went for checkup, "Did he have seizures or vomiting?"
But I am not scared, I know that stuff can only get better for me. I have had enough of misfortune.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
Pity the wimpy Democrats
They suffer in defeat.
Year after year they don’t learn
Like Republicans you must cheat.
Stuff all the ballot boxes
And monkey with the machines.
You’ll never get a **** thing done
If you keep the elections clean.
And band together solidly
With your chosen party.
Lie and cheat and dissemble
And act like a pompous smarty.
Never worry about what is right.
Just brazen it through out loud.
It seems jerks do the best
When catering to the crowd.
Buy votes from everywhere
Especially from big industry;
Big Oil, Big Banks and Pharma
Kiss their butts shamelessly.
Make sure all the factions
That are stealing the country blind
Understand you have their backs
And treat all of the poor unkind.
Go on tour and television
And make out you’re the good guy:
Dare the opposition to debate
Then Ignore facts and lie.
Remember the public is stupid
And doesn’t know what goes on.
Run a crew of cheaters on the side,
It’s what elections depend on.
But most importantly, you must be
The most obnoxious candidate.
Start early and spend the bucks.
It’s deadly for you to start too late.
Run the most famous people:
They must be Christian and straight.
No matter how you cheat and lie
Promise America will be Great.
Cover your butts before you start.
Plant a lot of baseless rumors.
Make baseless stories about their past.
Swear voting wrong causes tumors.
Do what it takes, Democrats
The GOP has no compunctions
If they could just get by with it
They’d beat you with truncheons.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
The morning brought the tremors of gray tumors in the sky
and it’s such a shame
that you had to hang yourself to dry your eyes
you broke the Sun
once you stared too long just to find
that you were blind
and what’s your name?
just an acronym of letters
without the words to tell them better
and It burned the colors in the rain
and made you bask in the pity of the sane
you were the working dead running from the living red
just finding sunshine in the telescope
a morbidity without the soap dangling on a rope
a sad addiction to fictional afflictions
as an urgency and Exit signs away your strife
with white gloves and an empty smile of love from above.
And how many gods does it take to change a light?
Jun 21, 2011
Jun 21, 2011 at 10:54 AM UTC
The Process
There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.
Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T he process?
A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.
Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.
*{The exception has it own character.
One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}*
The exception, exceptional.
The normal, normative.
Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.
Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.
You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.
Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
I imagined we’d grow gray together
and take winter sun holidays
somewhere we could warm our bones
cut out coupons from newspapers
stacking up in a jam jar
next to the fruit bowl
you’d rent guidebooks out of the library
and I’d take evening classes
so that I could understand
black tied waiters
you’d find it cute and impressive
and you would hold my hand tightly
during take off
the plan was that we’d walk around
foreign supermarkets and guess
the contents of the cans
they’d be faded beach towels
and the sticky scent of tanning lotion
our antiquated skin would burn easily
if we didn't smother it
but I’m not sure it matters
anymore, fretting over factors
we already have tumors
growing like doubts in our chests
we have nurtured them,
tended to their hungers and thirst
until we have none of
our own
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC