the cancer

The Cancer

I am in your heart when you are sleeping.  When you are awake, I am beating softly behind your livers.  When you feel distraught, I am beginning underneath your teeth.

That pain in your testicles, that lump that makes your balls feel uneven, that is me.  That lump in your throat, that lump in your breast, that lump in your hips, it is me.  That gun you feel at the back of your throat is also me but with French benefits. 

            When you are sluggish and do not feel like doing anything with your worthless self.  When you are feeling left out, like you don’t belong, not here, not there, not anywhere.  That is me my buddy.  That person who is beginning to feel get on your nerves because he never stops calling you daddy, that is me getting under his skin. 

            They will never believe you, wherever you come from.  From the Swiss Alps, or from the French tits, you will not be believed.  What comes with your intelligence also comes with any side order you get at any fast food restaurant.  Don’t think that you can fool me into doing anything, but what I would like to know is how you come apart so easily, why do you succumb to non-truths, yet you believe them before you believe your own heart.

            I am your dark heart beating non-triumphantly, awaiting the next drum beat to spell the end of the life for you.  I am that wind that blows nonchalantly through the trees and begs you to please yourself just one more  time before this whole world goes up like the

She was shaving her legs & then slowly moved to her nether regions.  She sat & carefully removed her hair.  I rubbed her smooth thighs & rubbed her button thinking it was a magic place & waited patiently for a genie to emerge.

We know not what we do.  We know not what we say; we know not what we fill.  When the bowls of earth decay, decay. Riddle my fancy with swords or gutter shame.

How the wind blows away each letter.  Each letter held together with weak glue.  But I think the weakest element involved is hope.  The hope I supply is running out at such a slow rate.  It is running along the spine & dripping deadly to the floor.  Each drop resembles each minute I held on to a painting which was never mine to begin with.  Why is it that I want to find out the finer things in life?  Why do I search out for glazed-over ideals?  Julie is so perfect; she does not know who is stabbing her.  She thinks she has perfect knowledge over my overbearing grimace, but I think she is playing the part and she is, without a doubt, winning.  But what is the prize in this game.  Does she feel powerful in intimidating me?

Remember when we climbed to the top of the building.  How we ran around, in and out of the rooms because we had nothing else to do.  Running in on sleeping people dreaming of sour cows that gave purple milk.

I miss the long beautiful days we spent

Even if nothing was done, I have no regrets,

It was a house with three big rooms.  Each room had its own bathroom and every bathroom had a large tub.  I called you to visit and you came.  Love is a strange disease; it can make you sick when it is not around.  Julie, my girlfriend, I want her around me all the time, but she does not want to hang out with me for a long time.  It’s not me or my bad habits.  It is her; she is growing up and wants me to leave her alone.  I no longer have any sort of pull on her.  It hurts.  I cry a lot sometimes; waste my soul away at being hurt.  Why can’t I just get over it and let her go.  Forgetting someone is very hard.

How lowly the leaves blow from a torrid height

A bright nincompoop with yellow fur

But that urge to learn, from sordid sights and hollow breath

The wind whispers truths of loving kisses brought forth from a

Wicked flower, how I long for a taste

The end of sorts

Holding the knife, you forget who the real murderer is.  Is it really me or the child inside of me?  It’s like holding a pen when you don’t know who is really thinking of the situation.

What am I knee-deep in, is such a horrid delusion, I wonder if what I feel is really my own feelings.  Sometimes before the glue hardens, I feel superior.

I saw her, there lying on the floor, in rigor mortis.  My flower, my dream, my sweet, sweet belladonna.  How is it that death looks so tasty on such pale lips.  What drives me to utter despair wishing to feel your touch again?

            I walk outside to take a breather.  After killing the woman you love, sometimes fresh air does great for the skin.