The relentless sound of the sky exploding, shattering into a thousand shards.
Flashes of light overhead, trench Romanticism at play.
Oxygen becomes smoke, sulfur watered eyes.

I love Bonfire Night.
Happy Pyromania Day, everyone.

Longing, encapsulated culinarily.
Crisp, crumbling.
Buttery.

Wooden board, serrated steel,
Sawn loaf.

Thick black waves,
merged by steel.

The future is not orange.

It's the colour of faded newspapers,
Dying embers, Buttery moonscapes and
Concrete scars.

It reeks of chip shop oil and skidmarked tattoos.
of Rotting flesh and accelerant
fumes.

The future comes with arms outstreched,
with daggers in your back.
with comforting palms.

The future tastes of soft toys, lost in time,
of thick cut white with butter
of goat.
It tastes of blessings once before.

and with luck, tastes once more.

People say that I'm foolish,
a bundle of velocity.

These magnificent stylings,
the simple joy of being me.

Stares curious and curiouser,
cocked eyebrows and murmurs.

Astonished minds bleat society,
cower from smiling performers.

Deep-seated madness,
Slinks beneath pupils obsidian.

Flit away, pounding feet,
Warmth, marred insiduously.

Childish gaze,
Turns to anger, unwarranted rage. Unhinged.

This man I once knew, transformed.
Perfection, alight. Broken. Singed.

Crawling, twitch. Sobbing Char.
Twisted metal, broken car.
Lifeblood spilt, conscience torn.
Screaming through the bloodied dawn.