I think I may just be a closet arsonist.
Although they always try to fit asbestos gloves
around my charred enflamed and probing hands
and make their vain attempts to wash away the
palisade of fire which stands between my brightly
blazing dreams and fortune’s fragile guillotines
I will engulf their crude repressive fearfilled
riot shields with heat-ignited fuel-drenched rags
in bottled cocktails unconcealed. I rain them
down upon their heads until the blanket sound
which marks their vast extinguishing experiment
can be pronounced officially as dead.
I’m wondering if I am a pyromaniac.
If so, that could become a burden and a handicap
if perchance I crave respectability among the clones
for whom incineration’s glare will pose a threat to
all the neatly lined-up chromosomes which pirouette
in spiralled lies denying that combustion — when
considered from spontaneous points of view — has
vastly more validity than burned-out residues.
Could it be that I’m a flaming firebug?
The reasons that I ask these blazing questions in
the coldgreylight (of what should be my dawn but
in reality will soon become my dusk) is that my
principal incendiary device is burning broken bridges
and, to be precise, then making sure that souls who
wish to share my world, becoming unrefrigerated
boys and girls, will then embrace inferno’s archetype.
© 2012, Alan Morrison