Lighter Fluid

Ziperovich

Forty-four magnum pillows and art as weeping willows,
long strands of art falling like the hair of your beloved,
infested with almost-beauty so bad your soul catches fire,
faces with faces that cut razors with razors, throw fire on pages,

Blow smoke on the fever,
float down a river made from memory with oars made from ivory and ebony,
elephantine sense of smell for the cane that walks the blind to and from,
hell and hell and hell will rebel into the heart of all that you buy and sell,

Throw fire on pages and fill up your lighter,
get a sense of yourself and burn a writer,
ashes to smashed faces with glass in your eyes,
smokestacks so high you can’t reach but you try,

And the last thing you will need is lighter fluid,
cigarettes will suffice unlit and glasses empty of drink,
the cellar doors of your soul, closed and opened, pry them open,
find the blast furnace and throw fire on your pages before you burn them.

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