Fuck Cancer

a poem on sentiment

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.