cancer, you littlething,
you are walking the goosestep
on my youth,
and chalking hopscotch on
my little affections

skipskipskipping back a yearandabit
you were so reicht. you collect
on me like a garbage tumour as i
lie in next-door’s skip of discarded bone marrow donors.


you are cruellest,
cancer, taking someone who
did not mean as much to me. such
a little thing

in the air like formality,
no longer leukaemia, muchmuch
crueller, you love to take
love and mutate it into an awkward
doglikepanzer that slathers on
the scrapyard where i
orphaned my onlyplasticsoldier

(you love to take my affection somewhere it isn’t wanted
and make it littler)


there was shakingandcryingandlaughter.
none of it was you, but you marched it all the way
through europe. you god, you bitter prick,
you ulcer.

i am standing on all the chalk in the world
you spoilt aryan child
and, on the blackboard, you will rewrite
every line of history you have smudged



                          i do not give.

                          i do not take away.


i am spurting like a tumour
and life is killing me



One thought on “3

  1. Pingback: 3 | aphorisms and meanderings


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