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contemplation on arson

climbing up the plateau of golden cow in a rural township,
and driven by hunger,
I contemplate arson—the flatweeds
beneath the granite fountain are too permeable with life.
suffocation is an art form and might
be pleasurable—the self like sugar starch,
crystallizes in heat.
standing on the peak now, buoyancy and bashful gusts of sand,
the world seems pregnant with an underworld;
highway men in brothels—the burn of
dry skin breaking wet lips,
another crime scene of broken husks,
bronze columns of charcoaled marigolds
rising into morning.
tonight, the mood is suggestive of kerosene,
a slower embrace with the gibbous moon as inanimates play
suitors to the fleeting sparks of quartz.
light. my geology professor once fired a blowtorch,
and space turned blue—
I play with matches ever since.
there by the stone bench is a rice bowl depression—
raindrops collect here,
waiting for fire and heaven.

16 Oct 10

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I love the second to last stanza....
 — unknown

thanks. :)
 — Sequiturist

seq- you always amaze me.
i'd like to borrow your mind for a while...
 — mandolyn

bumping this up...
 — Sequiturist

LLAA lovely completely and quite refreshingly original and quite good.

ps. your geology prof. is a pyro. ;)
 — unknown

there is a fire burning in all of us...so in a sense, we are all pyros. :]
 — Sequiturist

um ya... could be...but some just like burning stuff
 — unknown