Having given out the last of his
pocket change to the homeless man
sitting outside his house, with his
cardboard manifesto in hand, the
lung came home empty-handed.
The lights were off, because the
eyes did not pay the utilities, having
resigned themselves from their
jobs at the publishing house.
Now they walk about taking
in the dark like they were
hungry for it. Dropping his keys
on the kitchen table, the lung
opens the fridge to find the tongue,
who wanted to simulate how it would feel
to go lonely and without embrace.
On the television, the mouth spits
headline after headline about the
recent crime committed by the
nose, who smelt iron bars
and forged a knife to cut
through a family of hairs.
Sitting quietly in the dark,
the static of the television
filling the room with buzz,
like an errant insect, like
the wilting of a summer flower,
the lung is waiting patiently
to tell the heart to help him.
Recently, he has been losing
his way home. Journeys on
the subway lead to streets
he does not recognise;
Fresh Love on the Chopping Block road,
A Body without Organs street,
Please Hold Me avenue.
The lung feels lost
without the heart.
He can only breathe
slowly now, taking in
all the nothing left in
her wake, all the nothing
there is in a quiet home
in an unassuming suburb.
Freewriting Explanation: Every day, Valen shall use 5 minutes to write completely unprompted and uninterrupted, letting the words lead the way. There is no end purpose to each piece, but rather, the pieces are allowed to develop naturally in their own way. The pieces are then uploaded without edits.