As I smoke a cigarette
On the front porch
Where I once declined
I listen in my memories
To my sister yelling at my mom
In a crowded Mexican restaurant
That she should be allowed
To love both my mom
And my dad
But then our food finally came
And my cigarette
Finally goes out
Having mostly burned
Without help from my lungs
The air doesn’t taste so clean anymore.
I can remember being younger and gasping for breath,
the midsummer breeze provided me with plenty,
and I swallowed pintfulls and laughed at the energy it gave
and at the thumping of my heart.
The air was a little milder then.
It was around the same time,
in my childhood
when I remember that it actually snowed for Christmas.
So I almost must have felt the cold,
but temperature does not threaten you
when you are young and your lungs are full.
Not like nowadays,
when the only reason you don't destroy your lungs with smoke
is because you've seen the hospital wards,
heard of loved ones being eaten away because of
a malignant growth,
but that still doesn’t stop you
from taking the odd toke.
It hardly seems to matter anymore,
now that we are all living in denial.
But there was a time in our lives when our lungs were important,
if you didn’t have strong ones you couldn’t keep up with your friends,
and you needed to keep fit if you wanted to be a "soldier" in the "war"
this being before boisterous childish ideals
realised the dull pointlessness
of living in a neutral country,
where you were more likely to die in a car crash,
or by smoking your lungs tar-black.
You always wondered why your mother kept telling you to start
when she could never stop.
Did she not want you to have as much fun as she was having?
Imagine how many extra holidays you could have spent together
had she saved the money instead of spending it on cigarettes
and if your sister had never been born
you could have sailed twice around the world,
gone to Disneyland twice a year
and went skiing in the alps
instead of waiting to grow up in BORING OLD IRELAND,
waiting for school to end and the rain to stop.
Imagine how many years she has wasted,
because each cigarette costs fourteen seconds of your life.
Why does she want to leave you so soon?
Like her own mother, smoking her way to an early grave.
Its funny how you were the one who kept such care of your lungs
and yet it was you who was the first to end up in hospital.
A place where you could see the germs buzzing,
waiting for you as you arrived through the door.
They're going to make you lay in bed for a whole week
and you haven’t even broken your leg.
Yet they're smiling at you now, daft bastards.
"I wonder if they'll still be smiling if I never make it out of this mess."
But you have to admit it tastes splendid.
Takes the edge off,
puts things into perspective,
helps the time pass,
and makes you look "interesting."
Nowadays it’s a lot more social anyway.
Presents you with an excellent opportunity
to strike up conversations outside of pubs.
You could meet the love of your life if one day she asks you for a light.
No one really wants to grow old anyway.
Pissing yourself in the same chair,
your brain unbalanced by the mind-numbing anti-depressants
and the oncoming surge of arthritis.
I want to sip
the morning dew off
Taste the honey
that collects on your goosebumps
I want to hear the raindrops
dangling from your skin
aching to roll
like a current
through your coral fingers
I want to trace
on your lips
that leave your warm kisses
on my neck
I want your nails licking my back
like hot steel
crashing against my frozen body
I want to run my fingers through
a curtain of your hair
Flowing freely in my palms
I want to drink the colour from it
I want to taste every word
through our kisses
the secrets engraved on your tongue
I want to lift you up
with a single pinky finger
and encase you in hands
that feel like arms
I want to love you
like leaves carried in the wind
like the stars cradled in the sky
like your breath surging in my lungs
kissing ducks and sitting ducks
waiting for the tires to screech
watching for the eggs to hatch
waiting for the gun to blow up
back in our faces
and the singe of powder will burn us up
and we'll die in fiery anguish
or maybe we'll be fine
the pond glimmers in the starlight
nature's nestle sings at night
and her heart beats out of her chest
and i sit and think to myself
of all planets i was born on
in all my lives i've lived
god damn, how wonderful
with green vines wrapped
around their cages
we find ourselves
comes from between
vines grow old
with sticky tar
tobacco tasting tongue
mirrors the soul
You don’t know what you have until it’s gone
The things we take for granted
Forget to be thankful for,
Even on the most thankful of holidays.
These things are lungs
Pulling life in, pushing death out –
Two porous sacs so seemingly simple
Yet so complex, so undeniably fragile
Connected only by a string
Easily snipped like a thread of hair.
Two vital organs so seemingly complex
Yet so simple, so surmountable
A few puffs, one burst
And suddenly defunct forever.
Like a springtime blossom
Lungs are Her Romeo and Juliet
Come winter, the leaves will fall
Barren branches remain
Bereft of in and outs
Leaving only a cavity in the chest.