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Mike Hauser  Sep 2018
Arsonist
Mike Hauser Sep 2018
She is just an arsonist
Setting hearts on fire
Strike a match to her latest catch
Ash deep in desire

She is just an arsonist
Fanning hot the flames
Adding twigs in the shape of men
Burning each of them

She is just an arsonist
Destruction in her wake
Trial by fire burns hotter
If you're caught up in her blaze
Devon Baker Aug 2011
But the arsonist in a world of carpenters.
I’ve got matches at the salute,
wired blazoned between my every ashened knuckle,
heart beat furious
I’ll be this worlds iron furnace.
Their flames dance and sprawl
through flaunted finger
and slide of hand,
I’m the psychopath
and these flames children to command.
I dwindle fractured beaten to broken
hardly live to bless lips with breath.
I’ve but one choice,
to torch this world to a forever neverness
or stumble shadeless,
a shadow to brush past life to exist to view.
Always wishing to make a difference, to move, to make new.
Refined in Flames  Dec 2012
Fire
You’re an arsonist, baby.
You’re an arsonist, dabbling
in the arts of fire.
And love is your fuel.
My heart was inflamed.
You left me to smolder
But I stoke those flames
because I’m a pyromaniac.

Your flames licked at my flesh.
And I kinda liked it.
The heat, the burning,
I thrive off of it.
You’re an arsonist, baby,
and that’s okay.
Because I like the fire.
You lit me up, ignited
my thirst, my hunger,
my passion

I inhale your smoke.
Taking you in.
The smoke left me in a haze.
My vision, my thoughts,
all left unclear.
Your fire left nothing untouched.

You scorched my heart.
Consumed me. Refined me.
You sought to finish me off,
burning for you from within.

I tried to hide behind others.
Beneath their skin.
Not even grafts can hide
the damage done.
You left behind your mark,
on me.
Branded me with your ashes still visible.
Dose me in your precious love.
Open the flame. Light me
Up. I’m a dancing tongue of fire of your creation.
Watch me burn for you.
Watch me perish because of you.
Watch me love you with
Everything I am.

You’re an arsonist, baby.
And I’m a pyromaniac.
What’s the number for 911?
I need a firefighter.
From day one he was trouble
His parents knew on sight
Their bundle of pure joy and bliss
Was somehow, just not right

It wasn't in his nature
To be part of a gang
He like to be off by himself
He liked things that went bang

He was troubled in his school years
Never getting real good marks
He didn't get along with other
He was burning caps and making sparks

But when this boy found fire
Well, then....his world became real small
Never mind the big explosions
He would go and burn them all

Small fires set in dumpsters
Behind the shops, by where he ran
He'd set fire to the garbages
While he trapped a cat inside the can

He progressed on up to buildings
Made that jump, in one big way
He torched a crack house, all abandoned
Buy using gas and old, dry hay

But, the thrill was not a keeper
It wore off as fast as it arrived
He had to extend the feeling
That made his body feel alive

He knew to see his fires
He would have to volunteer
First he would go set them
Then, help put them out...I fear

It was a stroke of pyro genius
He'd set them and he'd put them out
He'd learn what gave them trouble
And he'd give them more without a doubt

He never killed another
Never burnt a persons home
He always set his fires
Where buildings always stood alone

They caught him late September
He'd burned a building late one night
It was supposed to be abandoned
But, was full of squatters, out of sight

The picture, it was famous
A hippie shaking someone's hand
It was on the front page of the paper
And it was shown through out the land

A fingerprint was lifted
A switch, that burned, not like it should
And from there, it was no problem
To lock this boy away for good

He was sent away to prison
He was gonna die there, bet on that
And on his first day in that prison
He saw an old man, who just sat

Sitting in the corner
by himself, no one around
Sat a man, all old and wrinkled
Lips were moving, but no sound

Came forth from this man's mouth,
his lips all cracked and dry,
You could stand right there and listen
And hear nothing if you tried...
For Eileen, who asked about why the second man was in prison. Here's his story Eileen...hope you enjoy it.
mer  May 2012
Arsonist
mer May 2012
There are always little sparks
Created through the friction of
Those two jagged flints though
Never enough to create fire on their own
Naturally, there needs to be a fuel.

Sometimes it’s tissue paper
Sometimes it’s gasoline
But as I’ve learned one way or another
There’ll always be flames between these
Chasms, valleys and gorges.

And the bridges built to cross between the two
Won’t always last. The raw energy will just
Wear away at some but the good ones stay.
Solid. Carved with rock and fortified with steel.
Like a scientist (or an arsonist)
I’ll test every. Single. One.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -

    i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -

    they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -

   working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
  and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
    genesis of unoriginality...

yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
    plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
   it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...

      just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
   allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
    the segregating process of
techno. advancement...  
         toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
   cultural loaning...
      "plagiarism"...
       perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...

now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...

             but as my continued fascination
continues with
    andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:

  why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!  

ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
              vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.
jaden Nov 2016
so i guess this is it,
the end of forever;
no one could've seen this coming.
the separation of past, present, and future.

past:
a smile from you
could spawn
a kaleidoscope of monarchs
in the pit of my stomach.
i fell in love
with the way you rested your chin
upon my head,
we were invincible.
i could have laid in your arms
for years.
i would have.
i had enough hope to feed a village.

present:
you tell me
this was long overdue,
that we're past our prime,
but there's no expiration date
on the sound of your laughter.
how do i explain to you
there are parts of my life
that move slower
without you in them?
today i am a quiet shade of blue.

future:
people will ask me
what was loving him like?
and i will smile and say
it was as if
the sadness had never swept me
under the rug
.
i will tell them
how i felt whole,
how you gave me something
to look forward to.
i will tell them
how you lit a fire in my chest
and evacuated only yourself.
no words,
no warning,
not even the butterflies
made it out alive.
i should have known this was coming
by the way you always reeked of smoke
and bad intentions.

you see,
i confused you for someone
who would hold my hand
when things got dark.

i just wish i had some closure.
j.c.

— The End —