On Cancer

'What is', he asked, 'this thing called cancer? ' An evil cell, expertly masked, with patience, unsurpassed? It wakes one day from hibernation, and starts its journey of ravenous proportions. You may, no question, call it oncogene, a cell with traits of wrath and wild distortions of known biology, where number forty-six, our noble chromosomes, just does not count, as cells of true malignancy will vary and adapt to all the chemo and to ionising radiation. We never will get victory with tools too dull and logic that is brittle. Capitulation is our unloved destiny and it has reached our lonely hearts. 'Is there an answer to the sourge ', you ask I say, perhaps for all is known about initial stages, its true beginnings and its seed of death. To fight this cancer is a thankless task, it's paid the wages of imbeciles in suits who earn their keep until your final breath succumbs to tyranny. No thought is wasted on the image of efficiency, you toe the line and do not reminisce. Indeed, you see deficiency and luddites in cahoots, when it is there, in front of you, a chronic lack, no less of something called ascorbate, the guardian of collagen. Now you begin your quest to count each lowly clue. And if you do arrive their first and find the golden goose, some little guys will point down to the tracks your feet have made and tell you, smiling to your face that bubbles bearing promises all burst.