End,
The True Tip of my Tongue,
(Enchanted Bronchial Tree),
holding out the
Cavern of Soft Sultry Silhouettes
that hug the walls.
Clinging to their influence able nature,
tendency to allow pink purity
to fall
to the black blistering blasphemy
of *****-watered bongs.
Inhaling the Damnation of god
And Magic Meal of
Those residing in Gehenna,
Limbo,
And those scouring the pearly whites of
heaven for their 72 ******
***** Calls.
The desperate stench
Of religion
crawling down
my needy trachea
to attach its
sticky suction cup sermons,
trying to trick
My larynx into
Hallelujah’s
And
Hail Mary’s.
Hoping repetition
will etch it into
our subconscious
like a gravestone
set in stone.
So repent,
saunter back into your pen little sheep.
False Anarchic Prophet,
Pretend Goat.
Throw your brain back into the box,
The Individuality Dishwasher,
They built for your mind from the
Start.

And the emptiness now
lets the memory howl
and bang its head
off the sheer walls of never—

Engulfed in consequence as it rolls in
fog or smoke?
In any case—

lonely

looks like this--
numb and cool and slow-moving
grayish-white fingers
reaching for molecules of air
while the reign of suffering comes like fine drizzle
over
springtime over....

Desire perishing in a crisis of will
In the thickets of panic—
bronchial spasms expand seconds
at an open window
Choking, congestive, failure of heart!
in the face of what it means to be...
not being

...as I came into this world
breach and not breathing
to my mother’s horror!
Alone
Scrapping, gasping, grappling for breath

I love life
I LOVE--   life!

Love—
inexpressible, inessential fool of a child

Love ripped apart at the v

=====================================
Silence broke into tears
But cried with authority of a heavy rain
With a prescription of a rule of the land
How many still write,
in autumn bells ?
when gentle dew sickles the nerves of my brain
tighten the bronchial tree of my chest
when your wings will broom the dust of the wound
behind the door of my aging heart ?

When the day will increase fresh greenery
Around the tiring garden of long passing life
And protect all the wedding stories
And save them for next generations and
Not allowing them to die
In a flooded storm of worldly intelligentsia ?

The dry leaves will remain burning
In the high temperature of June of My country
the serene calm river of wisdom will invite me drown
In Her depth up to the pebbles and sand
settled loosely in her breast flowing with deep water, but
The winter of coming life will try to frost my fertile brain
but the sacred heart reminds me to reach
the Ocean of the colored horizon

So I should be baptized or Initiated by the Guru
To follow the word of God or name of God
To know, realize and experience the hell or heaven of emotions
But, Some are so mature to become their own teacher
to write with their own pen on their own paper

Written by
~~~Jawahar Gupta~~~

(I) seaweed skin
today there is a
crevice where my
lungs used to be

(II) brass arteries
i took the long
way to work this
morning trying
to sidetrack my
mind with new
roads but there
are some bits of
you creeping up
my spine and
burrowing into
my hair and
nuzzling my ear
i had thought that
by now i would be
able to take breaths
without chunks of
sentences meant for
you breaking off
from my bronchial
tubes but they are
somehow still lodged
in there like they
have been called home

(III) umbrella heart
i used to wish no one
would ever touch me
ever touch me ever
touch me because their
fingerprints would last
too long and i can't scrub
them off like i want to
please let this be different
please let this be the end
of you aching at the base
of my skull and robbing
me of my purple dreams
and green hopes i want
to feel myself in my arms
instead of you

Medals are bestowed upon my frame
My attendance convinces me of the same

Rubber bands snap
I clap for myself
Rewarding my shelf

Green lit boxes tell me about progress
Who do you think are?
Red lit boxes?
Stop the squad car.

Catalysts become coupled
Into sweaty grains
All sounds are muffled

Pollution second handed me my life
I can’t breathe.
Bronchial ****** with a knife

My fingers are powdered with vitamin C residue
as I place the smal pill on my tongue
and taste the bitter thing
with buds eager for something strong and overpowering
...too strong...
and the taste matches my mood
with tangy, heavy shock
I swallow it in hopes that it will help
with my swollen bronchial... whatever...
I finger the bottom of the bottle
for a second pill
2 left...
2 to go...
2 to overload my body with it's immune health properties
more powder on my fingers
I **** it off in a mindless manner
as only a bitter stillness has taken me over this morning
eyes still swollen
from the night of crying before
...more powder from the bottom
I need more of that bitter taste

Mucous trickling down my nose
Ice crystals forming twixt my toes
Mind juggling with full-blown prose
What a way to go?

Bronchial valves erupt from deep
Eyes blurring from lack of sleep
Insidious thoughts continue to creep
What a way to go?

Sinus passages gurgling to drain
Phlegmatic vocal chords taking the strain
Cranial neurons humming a refrain
What a way to go?

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The answer does not lie in his arms
It is not in her smile
It does not walk in their shoes

The answer is not at the bottom of a cup of coffee
Poured hot and milky over sleep-filled eyes
Lounging under the blue skies of someone else's greener grass

It is not a question of love or hate
Or a proposition of sorts with short-term definitions
Made to muddy puddles of friendly flirtations

The answer is more than money, less than time
Enough of a good thing to know the difference
When morning's indifference arrives

It is not in the arch of a sleeping stranger
Or dangerous liaisons with lessons learnt a long time ago
In lots of little lines in and around your eyes and nose

It is not about the pout on a pretty face or the taste of testing limits
Taking trousers down with tongues to triumph your tricks
And lick damp finger tips

It was never for the fun of it
Fearing fire, or worse, the cool uncompromising curse
Of casual or curt correspondence that comes down the disconnected chain

It is not in the first drag of the day
The way forward becoming as blocked as your bronchial passages
Black and blue in patches of promise and poverty

It is not for your benefit
Not what you want it to be
It will not bend to your flight of fancy

No - the answer is all it has ever been in the past
A simple preparation:
Knowing which question to ask.

Sun's rays
pierce

the bronchial
latticework

of the bare trees
in late Fall

leaving me with
windless and limp sails

whit howland © 2021

The air feels fake.
Fictional even, when that tightness in my chest occurs.
Slick smokey and black fingers lurk
From the corners of any minuscule space I happen to be in
And creep, and lurch, and crawl towards me.
They drown out the light and **** up the oxygen.
Coal-colored tendrils,
Petrifying sea anemones,
Anatomical autonomous anomalies...
Awful.
I sit paralyzed.
My control comes in the form of doorways.
                                                       ­  Or windows.
                                                               Or room to move my arms.
But these creatures deny me the satisfaction of control,
                                                        ­                           of space,
                                                                ­                        of air.
Synthetic winds fill my body, rapidly, as if I can't get enough.
Shutting my eyes does not help.
It only enhances the sensation of them gripping my arms,
Strapping me down and maneuvering their way down my throat.
Churning my stomach and stopping the expansion of my lungs.
Each bronchial synapse screams.
Every AVM feels like it might burst and fill my lungs with thick blood.
Choking.
The fingers are stuck and tickling my esophagus and they burn,
Like ash from a funnel tunneling through me scorching my organs.
Behind buzzing hummingbird eyelids
Are kaleidoscopic misfitting jigsaw pieces
entering, appearing, disappearing, e x  i   t    i     n      g.
It won't end
It won't end
Itwon'tend
The world is ending all around and the arms and fingers won't
(gogogo go GO)
back to the corners whence they came
Until...

That growling voice
raspy
bronchial tubes screaming under
cakey mucus;
feelings are thrown around here,
jutting out of auras
like flood lights.
We all need things.
What would it be like if we didn't?
Can you imagine that?
Everyone
having everything they need
to feel safe,
secure,
loved?

I have COPD
Or actually it has me.
It has me wheezing
And coughing.

It has me huffing
And puffing
And choking
Panicking

I detest getting dressed,
Because every move
Bring distress,
So I always need to rest,

Because between
Donning each article
And particle
It is a breath taking struggle.

Yes, I say
I have COPD
But in reality
It has me,

In it's grip,
Controlled like
A military ship

Three times
I had a COPD Attack,
And Passed out
Fell flat on my back.

Sleeping at night
I don't always sleep right
Because my bronchial tubes
Are closed up tight.

One day, some day
It will take me away.
But that's OK
I'll be tranported
To Heaven that day

How about you
My reader friend?
Wherre will go
After your life
Comes to an end?
      = by G. E. Parson

is a broken rib—
the same sharp pain,
wooden-lung breathing.
I stand alone in an
ocean of bodies,
mouthless half-faces,
gaping holes beneath
strips of cloth.
Your assumptions
dissolve me only
gradually—
an un-bronchial
consumption,
though still,
I am left gasping.

The Hamlet

In a deep valley, where winter sun doesn't reach
Time moves slower than normal and so damp
You have to wear a rain coat even if it is not raining
I came across a hamlet so muddy that dogs have
webbed feet,
duck tails and bronchial bark.
Only women dressed in jute sacks live her together
with ****** sons
who sit in dark recesses and sleep in the pig sty,
pull faces and laugh at nothing in particular.
Beans, pig fat, garlic and boiled cabbage is their diet,
and the women love death, waits for one of the fools
to die so they can have an ****, pull hair
and scream all night.
Seen from the top of a hill the hamlet looks
charming and rustic.

A knot of wondering thoughts
Climb in high pressure
Beating hearts seem forever

Across open seas & down to earth
Feet to each phalange
From bronchial to flooded lungs

Inspiration is hard to find
When you're really happy in life & your writing comes from a dark place naturally..
Sorry people