Human Chimneys

Through which pour

All the art and all the gore

Make up the roof of this place

The mystic bog of music and mace

Spice magma made of eurekas & filaments

Lightbulbs like butterflies the primary elements

The pressures from moments build up a good head

And up flies the lava through the living and dead…

By pure chance some catch it, latch-on to a wee bit

Of phoenix-hatchlings, which then briefly will sit

Upon chimney-headed free paupers of soul

So when one’s lips touched to that coal

Seraphim tongs, red-orange glow

From out of this mouth

New paintings

Did flow