Sunday, October 24, 2010
Lungs
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
at the bleeding edge of a sponge: lungs are an image
sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club.
Lungs are El Niño, Singapore Sling, Beelzebub.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree. Lungs are a drop
of dye dripped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg ... not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
at the bleeding edge of a sponge: lungs are an image
sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club.
Lungs are El Niño, Singapore Sling, Beelzebub.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree. Lungs are a drop
of dye dripped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg ... not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
// posted by George Manka @ 12:48 PM 
