For when he appears,
My lungs fill with flowers 
And for a moment I 
Forget to breathe.

The sleeping caterpillar 
In my stomach
Performs metamorphosis
And flutters around
Trying to break free.

The rivers named veins
Fill and rush to my chest,
To my head and
I forget how to think.

For when he smiles,
His eyes come alive,
And I wonder
 Does he thinks of me this way.

Dark was the night in the hour that you left me
I had no idea to bid you a farewell
And in the night that you had left me
I did not know the essence that you had claimed
And on that night my lungs were clear and free of mildew
But at the break of dawn, my heart was not the same.

They said to buy local so I tried to buy Dave Cull’s lung.
But he wouldn’t sell it.
They said to buy local,
So I tried to buy Michael Woodhouse’ heart,
But it was out of stock.
The shop girl told me she would check out the back.
They said to buy local so I tried to buy Lee Vandervis’ hands,
He said he’d sell them to me but I tried them out and they had no grip.
The said to buy local so I tried to buy Harlene Haynes nose,
But it was already in something else.
(she told me it was malicious of me to ask and threatened me with defamation)
They said to buy local so I tried to buy the Highlanders cauliflower ears,
so I’d have enough florets for a salad,
But it turned out they weren’t organic, so I left it.
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
They said to buy local so I tried
And I tried
And I tried
And I tried

They said to buy local
-but between the dilapidated hospital and the drafty-damp flats there were no good organs to purchase.

Mars Sep 2

The lungs of the earth
have an infection
of little mites
that dont know her worth.

They need a resurrection
to realign their sights.

They don't like her dirt.
So they make concrete.
Scabs that can't heal.
That cause more hurt.

Unable to be discrete.
Inclined to whine and steal.

So ready for a fight.
One or two I'd call a friend,
But most have fangs
fit to drain her of her light.

Busy chopping 'till the end,
'till she writhes in oxygen pangs.

What leaves their tongues
matters most
when its harsh and sick in tone.
Uninformed, they assault her lungs

Their gracious host
coughs and cries on her throne.

Kaya Aug 18

A thousand paper cuts
to hollow lungs- a void
mass loss of blood to blue
like blue crabs cricketing through
the vast red ocean


An old metal box locked away
A treasure chest if you may
Containing fragments of your childhood
A china doll, broken
Photographs stained with age
The thunderstorm struck, you told me it would
That cursed the hours of your days

I awoke this morning
And in my veins flowed a longing sensation
My lungs tried to inhale as much air as they could
I paced up and down the pale hallway
That echoed with your golden memories
Your laughter danced up and through the window
Your tears rained down throughout the cities light show

All that was left was;
An old metal box, locked away
A treasure chest if you may
Containing fragments of your childhood

The start (of) /
a braid or a rope /
is nothing (at the beginning of this) /
it is only the idea stemming /
from a sapling or a seed to become /
a tree /
reality /
what we touch, see, and wish to be /
Ancient beings can feel how they are not free /
I notice this is my mother’s face /
as I lead her to the restroom /
so near, too far for her /
the years count with her /
the (counted) years count the steps to the toilet /
and consider just holding it /
because the pain of walking so clearly outweighs /
the pain of holding your pee after birthing 3 children /
one of them dead /
okay, birthing two children /
I was cut from my mother /
Regardless, /
maybe if you cut out the lungs /
things would cease to be /
chaotic like the outreach /
reaching out a hand /
praying she’ll find me /
because I’ve gone too far and can’t rewind //////

maybe if you remove my lungs…. /
I could stop focusing on my breathing /
give you all of my love /
show you I am not worthy /
of that admiration leaking from your ears //////

don’t be jealous of me

Jealous of me?
She couldn't be.
How could she be?
Lying beside me--
Wishing to have my something
alan Jul 9

A thought lingers in the air as a wisp of smoke
coming from a cigarette freshly picked
from the tattered white and red box that rules this life
and is produced to calm chaos on this chaotic sphere
by causing more, quietly, silently.

my lungs dive deep
into the marrow
of your embrace

beneath the waves
they find
your heart

please don't
worship me
into ascension

I wouldn't bare
to be your
Aztec sun god

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