“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, June 20, 2020
Fire Rite
He lit all of my gasoline
and boasted,
This is jet fuel baby,
I burn it all.
It was reckless of me
to expose my reserve tank
within such close proximity
to predictable ignition.
Not even a triangular flag
waves a nauseous warning
over fanned flames,
choked up
only to be licked with sharp tongues.
The day burns its long wick
down to the bare wax molded
mannequin of myself
who whispers Empty
in the end,
when the fire finally consumes itself
he calls it,
Raw Power as combustion
can be counted upon
inevitably
given enough
desire
to fill the stone curb well
with ashes.
Painting by Nikolai Astrup, 'Midsummer eve bonfire' c. 1915 in Public domain.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Half-dozen Mud cakes
Back to wood decks, quarter-size spiders, webs, moss and creatures stirring in the hollow nights Back to no side-walks and skirting into th...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
-
Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...
No comments:
Post a Comment