Fuck Cancer
Fuck Cancer is
something said when
we are angry
and sad
and floundering for control of
grieving emotions
for loved ones
(which can include ourselves).
But what if cancer
did get fucked?
What if it got fucked
right where it lie –
in the bones, the tissues,
the organ where it feasted
and multiplied
and grew like a greedy
piece of shit?
Would it squeal like a
dying demigorgon?
Would it rot and its smell
permeate like fetid,
putrid death – the rank
vaporizing the air for days?
Would it quietly recede,
lay low and wait for its moment
to feed on fermented carbs
until it gained enough strength
to come back bigger
and more douche-yeasty
than before?
I want to know
why in the fuck
death has to be physically
painful after
a life that already was.
If I could eradicate
cancer,
I would also know how
to eradicate
the hateful, intolerant,
oppressive white trash
that is making a platform
off of killing
our right to live
free from undue suffering and pain.
If I could dispose of rhetoric
doused in vitriol,
maybe we would no longer need
the sentiment,
Fuck Cancer.