People only mesh well with kerosene, each and every human so flammable,
It's a wonder we don't all set ourselves on fire...
But yours truly did it last night
Swallowed two liters of lighter fluid and chased it with jet fuel,
Ate the box of matches you keep in your purse
And burnt away the last good parts of my stomach.
///
I slept like a baby for two hours,
Not enough for lectures on the carbon cycle or dada mathematical deconstruction,
So I drifted off to more sleep, and slept to dream of the Six Gallery.
Wishing one or two poets would gain fame in an age of pineapple vodkas that no one is drinking for the taste,
But for gravity to pull through their very thin blood stream and feel at one with the party.
It's monotony—
I'll die and everyone will love me then, so where are they while I'm alive?
That's the joke of mourning,
It's the reason I resort to self-immolation,
It's the reason I dream everyday for fame and do nothing about it.
It's why Frank O'Hara got out while he could, dying with the true images of New York City
And not living to see it destroyed as I now have.
Emperors and Legionaries alike, take up your arms and help me overthrow anyone who dictates verse and meter.
I aspire to **** a fascist with my bare hands.
