Remission: The Death of Saint John
They designed the drugs romantically,
the powers that be.
Hit and hope.
Years later, in the age of uncertainty,
they designed the drugs rationally –
to target key areas, bought every ticket in the lottery
and waited, confident,
for elimination to present the only winner,
the true winner,
they couldn't lose.
The chemo killed as it cured.
The patient's performance,
ability to resist - regenerate,
was clumsy and difficult.
Hit and miss.
A far cry from surgical precision.
As regiments of dead soldiers
(archaeology of another lost war)
down guns and dignity
amongst the swamp roots of dead trees.
lights gone out - transformation complete.
Brown bread, his numbers up, boats come in,
six foot under.
The grenade in the glove box again.
They found it in his lymph nodes,
still, he had a good innings,
he's out of the misery now, gone upstairs,
it's a relief really,
his lungs were turned black,
liver packed in,
it had gotten into his head.
He's been called up to join the big army in the sky.
It was all over when it spread to his skin,
bar the shouting.
His body was riddled,
the autopsy showed,
long before they'd cut out his tongue.