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Cancer
by Meagan GreenIt is all the same.
Each with different names,
but they still sound the same.
The lines in the leaves
are the lines on my hands,
and the flowers grow so lovely
for sex, those sexy things.
That orchid turns me on.
That rose makes me hot.
Its lady parts smell like perfume,
its sperm tastes like nectar.
The sun shines cancer,
and we are cancer. And sex.
Sex. Genes. Limousines. Spleens-
they are everything,
Cancer.
I knew a grasshopper with cancer.
I buried him in my mind and
I got cancer in my cheeseburger,
and my stomach felt just fine.
Mmm... cancer.
There's your answer.
I'm unapologetic for this,
life is bliss.
Improvisational nation, I think not.
Cancer, yes, our new economy-
radiation pointed toward
the souls of the dead.
Collective conscious.
Collective unconscious improvisation:
The internet, the T.V set, the newest
powerful nation.
These words...
I hope you don't like them.
I hope you don't understand.
Think for yourself, question authority,
become the minority
and forget you know what that word means.
"I enjoy the taste of beans."
Thank you :) Stay serene. (and clean) 04/18/2007 Posted on 04/19/2007
Copyright © 2024 Meagan Green
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 04/19/07 at 03:06 PM Loved it! Particularly - "These words...
I hope you don't like them.
I hope you don't understand.
Think for yourself, question authority,
become the minority
and forget you know what that word means."
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| Posted by Matthew Sharp on 04/21/07 at 09:48 PM this drags me around to some extremely attractive extremeties that otherwise would be an everyday mass relation.
you broke the mold in me, the mold that i build by tempering myself to slave labor, to work and bacvk and back and back.
you give me hope that the monotony of a slow death can be overcome.
beautiful. |
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