| BURN
found a mirror to discuss this dead of night game - with blood, balls, piss, and wine - where a burnt out fire -sparks wafted heavenward - vanished long ago. With the heat of melting metal and running flesh, fire said: "I knew you were crazy, I'm crazy crying for you." heat baking away sweat and tears... as soon as they appear, one before another one after another each in turn striking matches in the empty air. Tearing down the power lines to find more fuel like it could be as cruel as anger at the spark in every life, or every death, in every day. Licking the sky with smoke and flames... Bystandingly innocent sucking in the cold night air and blowing it hot like a midnight sun... watch the woman run, Breathing gulps of smoke, breathing Phoenix breath playing the game of death: "Guns, heroin, money" In a bed of naked red hot reeds lain on stony dirt- better than sex. A north wind blowing cold, shouts filling the drunken air. Grass smoke and wine fog disappear in riding boots running to a nightime star resting on the hillside. A constellation mirroring the star sky, reflecting on the falling women who danced away the day the cameraman burnt his hand. The weak night light of a dying dynamo The edge of chill and heat, running to stay warm running to enter and exit a burning tunnel reflecting the heat, mirror-like, toward you. Having no way through the purging heat, you turn to face the mountains from inside a mouth of fire. I run, click, click, framed as a painting in front of a womb of flames. You stumble, fouled by heat, you fall there as someone stumbled down the stone cold steps toward you, as we walked away, hand in melting hand, to court more disaster, a few flames in our pockets for the journey home. In a bed of naked red hot reeds lain on stony dirt- better than sex. A north wind blowing cold, shouts filling the drunken air. Grass smoke and wine fog disappear in riding boots running to a nightime star resting on the hillside. A constellation mirroring the star sky, reflecting on the falling women who danced away the day the cameraman burnt his hand. The weak night light of a dying dynamo The edge of chill and heat, running to stay warm running to enter and exit a burning tunnel reflecting the heat, mirror-like, toward you. Having no way through the purging heat, you turn to face the mountains from inside a mouth of fire. I run, click, click, framed as a painting in front of a womb of flames. You stumble, fouled by heat, you fall there as someone stumbled down the stone cold steps toward you, as we walked away, hand in melting hand, to court more disaster, a few flames in our pockets for the journey home. |
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