She was a raging inferno,
Touch her and perish,
A roaring inferno,
Burns your soul to ashes.
As she raged against the dying light,
Crazy, I craved only for her,
Praying she would go gentle in the night,
My eyes blazed for her like a meteor.
Within me, her anger raised sensual  emotions,
With my gentle love, I desired to tame her,
That was my firm resolution,
And one day,on her lava soil would bloom our little flower.

I AM IN THE WAY OF WOE.
I AM IN THE WAY OF FORSAKEN LANDS.
I AM IN THE WAY OF THE CITY OF GHOSTS.

THIS WAS MADE BY THE ARCHITECT,
HIS LIGHT AND OMNIPOTENCE
HIS POWER AGAINST THE SINS OF MEN.

EVIL IS CONTAINED HERE, FROM WHICH LIVE
THE WICKED, LECHEROUS, WRATHFUL
PRIDEFUL WITCHES OF TIME AND GRIEF.

ABANDON HOPE ALL WHO ENTER HERE.

I have felt the red, oh, the scorching hot red.
Unto my woes, I cast them aside.
As now, the only things I could have are fear and dread.

The vestibule of opportunists, they chase those flags
The circle of the virtuous, they have no hope of God's hands.
The circle of the lustful, the wind of the carnal from where it drags.

I saw, figures of time and history
Many of these have come from stories
Aristotle, Homer, Theseus, all of these.

Then there's the circle of the gluttons, the circle of war
Up until the graveyard of Dis.
I will not tell you of the next ones, until after I am afar.

Some are pagans, some not
They suffer under God's wrath, even the virtuous ones.
As they have shunned His light and have been left to rot.

And I, dear reader, have far worse stories to tell
Until my day of reckoning, where I will be judged
To be under that block of ice in ****.

I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia--
Goddess of hearth,
warmth,
embers that do not fade,
for they glow as softly
as lightning bugs.

But this time,
I will not be returning home.

Don't you see?

I've burned it down already.

Perhaps there shall exist no redemption
for my pyromanic sins.

They could not save
Sylvia Plath
as she ****** her head into the oven,
carbon monoxide stealing away
her last strands of breath.

(Sadness climbs up my throat in
stalagmites of flame,
rises from the chasm of my soul like bile,
like a phoenix reborn.)

They could not save
Joan of Arc,
whose flesh screamed out among
the ringlets of fire
and threads of cinder
that consumed it
so mercilessly.

(No, I am not a witch--
just a demi-goddess,
just a dangerous woman
But, unlike Joan of Arc,
I am no Saint either.)

They could not save Pompeii
whose inhabitants lay
victimized
asphyxiated
stolen
by the magma regurgitated by
the Almighty Vesuvius

(I cannot decide who I am
more similar to--
the inhabitants of Pompeii,
or the lava itself)

Perhaps then,
there is no saving a woman like me--
a woman forged from brimstone,
****'s very own Femme Fatale.

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone like its fragrance;
braid singed ribbon into my hair,
its ends charred and
curling upwards like tendrils of smoke;
rouge my lips with gunpowder.

Kiss me and
bite the bullet, darling--
make love to me
and you will combust.

But oh!

How these men will  bite their lip
at the thought of
******* me,
of dipping their fingertips
into the molten pools
that dwell between my thighs
similar to the way
a mere girl
(I, 16 years old)
is fascinated by the prospect
of baptizing her own melancholic
hands in candle wax.

(Who's the real ******* here, Baby?


Sincerely,
your Filthy Pyrophilliac.)


I am a
shadow charmer,
arsonist
the  Siren
of this Inferno
(wanted for her crimes).

Perhaps I was never the epitome of darkness,
perhaps I simply
lured the darkness towards me
(sorrow and the devil too.)

It's funny now that I think about it,
how the stars too reside in darkness,
how, when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on fire.

And where there is fire,
there is destruction;
it's no wonder all these dreams--
those of
love
magic
poetry--
have shuddered to ash.

Still, l I find myself making
snow angels in the ashes,
stick my tongue out,
let the remnants of desire
scorch my taste buds.

Here I lie
like an extinguished cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.
But that's just fate,
stars ain't too fond
of nicotine, ya see,
ain't too fond of me
even though the very atoms
that comprise my being
are made of the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh, how these galaxies
have escaped my brooding grasp.

I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--
chew on matchsticks,
let the splinters sear themselves
into my tongue;
lap at the iridescent gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely streets corners;
howl beneath paper lanterns,
for both the sun and the moon
have forsaken me.

I do whatever it takes
to remember where I come from--
a state of limbo,
wherein I am simultaneously
angel (falling) |and| demon (the fallen)

What am I without flame?

Flame--
they could not save me from it,
from burning.

But perhaps the peril was never in burning;
perhaps it was in  burning out;
perhaps it was in disintegrating.

I wish I could speak words that assuage
But I’m nothing but an introvert
I’ve accepted this and that’s ok
I’ll type the words out in hopes of an alert
That you have read and agreed
At least that’s something I want to believe
But who am I kidding you don’t follow me
So I will admire from afar and dream
Of you
My sweet
Beatrice

She punishes herself.
Self-loathing swells and festers
as she resentfully reflects on
her choice to dispel
Better judgment.
she avoids mirrors,
Afraid to see
skin that remains
gray.
The horrifying truth of what she
chose to uncover
Disturbs her dreams.

I awake, coughing,
disoriented,
Clothes adhered to skin
by
Cold sweat.
Anxious,
hollowed,
Robotic,
I reach for a cigarette.

We crossed into the vestibule together,

The door of a redundant beauty salon,

Alighting in a land of adverse weather



Where acid rain fell, ceaseless by the gallon

And ***** figures screamed on barbed-wire fences

Whilst others stood and mourned, awaiting Charon,



"You wanna know their heavenly offences?

I'd tell you but you'll think I've ******' lost it"

Said Jack as I recoiled from stricken senses,



"They saw the line but never ******' crossed it,

Preferin' just to sit in noncommittal,

These skewered birds are known as the 'agnostic',"



I knew the term for those whom faith was brittle,

Belief in 'maybe', ignorant of praises,

The will was there but sadly, far too little



And now, condemned they bled on metal razors,

Their bowels torn by their procrastination,

Immovable, sat in their fixtured places,



To Kerouac, I asked about salvation

But laughing, Jack denounced what I was saying,

"A good one, kid but in that situation,



When neither **** nor Heaven wants you stayin',

It's here you'll find your ******' revelations

Within those barbs and blades and no point prayin'",



My heart began to to race in fibrillations

And Kerouac, who sensed my faith disbanding

Picked up on my inflecting reservations,



"I wouldn't worry, slim; God ain't remandin'

Your soul for wantin' confidence and closure,

Unlike that lot, you seek an understandin',



Now, fix your make-up, kid and gain composure,

The riverboat is comin', don't you worry,

The other side, its just like Nova Scotia.",



I looked toward the blackened river slurry,

I saw the anguished ****** that congregated

And not a soul within a them in a hurry



To board the brooding ferryboat that waited,

Its captain, cloaked in charcoal roared and beckoned,

Compelled them all aboard with scorn and hatred,



"We'll mosey down and see him in a second"

Said Kerouac whilst rolling up tobacco,

"He ain't that fly, he's really just a deck-hand,



In fact, I think he might be ******' wacko

But so would you, aboard that ******' ferry,

It's like deportin'  Jews to Kraków-Płaszów",



To this, my guide held up a glass of sherry,

"A toast to ****, our blessed alma mater"

Said Kerouac, his voice robust and merry,



He cried out 'See you later, alligator"

And waved to those who squirmed on fences, bleeding,

His smile, sardonic; impish like a satyr,



He led me down to where the crowds, receding

Were forced aboard by Charon's flaming lantern,

Receiving only malice as a greeting



And those that chose to run were dragged by phantoms

Then cast into the Acheron to languish,

A sight that chilled my soul's most inner sanctums,



We stopped and watched the scenes of fear and anguish,

As Charon now approached, I thought of Goya

And deities of ancient Eastern language,



"Well, lookee here! It's Huck and young Tom Sawyer!"

Said Charon in a mocking voice of gravel,

Propelling me to heights of paranoia,



"You cannot ride among this fallen rabble,

For only the deceased can reach Inferno,

Now go! Return among your herd of cattle!"



"Just back up, slick." Said Jack, now drinking Pernod,

"This guy has special sanctified permission

To learn where souls who challenge and demur go.",



As Kerouac relayed our expedition,

I sensed the awful captain's resignations,

He shook his head in abject indecision,



"Not this again, these ******* aggravations!

The last time Mary did this ****, I told her

In less poetic terms, it wears my patience."



As Charon moaned, old Jack massaged his shoulder,

"I know you do your best to expedite 'em,

I feel you, man; one soldier to a soldier



And now your work-day's just about to brighten,

'Cos here's a little somethin' here to pay thee.",

Said Jack, bestowing Charon with an item,



I saw the stone and whispered" Are you crazy?! "

As Charon walked away in satisfaction,

"Fat chance" Laughed Jack, "That diamond's a fugazi!,



I prayed to God that Jack's unfair transaction

Would not incense the ferryman to ******

And hoped the ****** provided a distraction,



At least until we'd got a distance further

Away from here and into ****'s aorta,

I cringed as Charon roared with hellish fervour



And off the vessel sped across the water,

I clung with whitened hands to ancient railings,

Expectancy of life now growing shorter,



"Now this is what I call efficient sailin'!"

Said Kerouac, unfazed by waves and motion

As I was thrown about, my body flailing,



Sulphuric rain and winds assailed the ocean,

A storm so fierce it rendered me unconscious,

My final thought, a disenchanted notion



Of Jesus, of Antipas and of Pontius

And all the pious pitfalls scripture conjures.