OUR CANCER WOULD LIKE TO SAY SOMETHING

How fast can living things revert to mud?
The beggar on a street is halfway there.
And, thanks to you, our mouths – yours and mine both –
Are gagging with the old sepulchral muck.
Because my beauty was not like yours
You said I was corrupt.
Like you, though, I wanted only to survive.
I did not intend – I did not plan –
My gain should be your loss. (They say one never does.)

Not that I ask for your blessing
Any more than you’ll seek mine:
With gallows humour, you used to joke,
I was a creature of limited thought
And immense powers of concentration.
Because (undisciplined, unaided) I didn’t know how
To die, you called me a social climber,
Troubled, in case I might be your one true son.
Let’s not play Pooh Sticks with
The Enlightenment game.
I had form. I had purpose: I had ambition.
I know my rights. I am a peacock,
A wet dream, the American dream.
What’s your modern fashion, to give the underdog
An innate moral innocence?
What’s with this sudden sanctity of yours,
Meaning that your way – and only yours –
Should be the one to live forever?

September 2006

OUR CANCER WOULD LIKE TO SAY SOMETHING

Stephen Jackson

London, United Kingdom

  • Artist
    Notes

Artist's Description

Another little number (see J’ACCUSE) about relationism, language and an underdog’s legitimate aspirations. Two cheers for our glorious Free Marketplace.

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