Fucking Cancer

Fucking Cancer has removed the Joker from
Death's deck of Numbered Suits.
No more Surprise.
Forget it.
None of your loved ones gonna get it by Shark Attack, Shootout
or Helicopter Crash. Except maybe The One.
The One.
And no matter what they did in Life.
No matter their earthly matters.
They will hereafter be known as "Yeah, The One who was decapitated
by whirling propellers." or "...Bit in half by
Carcharodon Carcharias all 'CHOMP! CHOMP!'"
The One forever defined in the racket and mess of an Exit,
despite the quality afforded by Lungs & Blood.
The One will be all that we know of Spontaneity
of Refreshment.
All "BOO!" and your fucking heart tears itself in a trillion pieces for all the goddamn pain
and confusion and throws itself away like it just didn't know what to do with itself in the face of such a bold and beautiful fuckin bullshit Birthday Present.
Forget it.
But the rest of us?
Lose the poker face. You can't be happy about your hand.
You don't get the Bullets and the Fire
The Passion & The Glory.
The Rest of Us?
Fucking Cancer.
That's what was waiting in Post-Industrialism's Bucket
at the Grand Prize Game.
Congratulations, Bozo.


...
this was actually originally part of a bigger poem about Van Morrison (or more specifically, my reaction to and appreciation of his music), i never thought it really fit quite right in that piece. so i ripped it out and now they're two separate things. enjoy!
-andy