Pyromania teaches you
something;
Playing with fire
is much like
playing with hearts,
someone will always
feel the burn.

“Who are you shacking up with?” I queried the pope proudly.
“With a hovel full of *******, junkies & pederasts!” He retorted.
“Do you wear your giant, open-mouthed fish hat to bed?” I asked.
“Of course I do & the ring & the purple drapery,” the pope said.

blurred through the mumbling atomic cafe
i thought i heard you say
i am become deaf
destroyer of words
but you were breath
become butterfly effect
spiraling within the stereophonic white-noise drone
of a static radio station
tuned to the music of the silent colossal rotation
of the planets, stars, sun and moon
behind the drawn curtain of a vanished polaroid

still these beating hearts to a murmur
slow these breathing lungs to a whisper
and attach the cello strings of your bloodstream
to that glittering confetti cloud of satellites
strobing, circling the sphere of our atmosphere
strung out on geo-synchronicity
the turning tunnel of the tides
the aeon-spanning volcanic swirl of magma
subsonically writhing
beneath the magnetic pull of the ocean floor
and just...listen...

can you hear the flaming  crackle
of the fire burning in our bellies?
if we slit our stomachs open
the flames that spill from our hari-kiri'd entrails
will fill the darkness in the corner of our closet
and burn it to ashes

in a dream
i saw us laughing together many years from now

when the blast-furnace of our blood, sweat, tears and acid dreams gapes wide
we will laugh in it's face
at the absurdities
of death and taxes

and as the years push through
we will laugh
as we go blind in our old age
growing brighter than the glow
from within the dollhouse home we assembled
from sticks n stones

and we will grow gray together
and fill the soles in our shoes
the holes in our soles
with the dirt, rust, ash, concrete and angel dust
of these city streets

and we will laugh like pyromaniacs
as we **** on burial plots
soil our own graves
and erase our fingerprint smudges
from the blueprints
of our jailbreak escape plan

flames will erupt from the holes in our heads
consume us
spread in a tectonic shock-wave
and lick the pale toes of angels and dreaming junkies
hovering on ghost clouds of ***** soot
just above the foot of our bed

the outlines of our bodies will liquify, disintegrate
and reform as the jagged teeth of a cityscape skyline
crowned crookedly upon the head of a crippled pigeon
ascending in a stuttering climb
towards a heaven
that does not exist
for us

shaking ash and bone-dust from twisted feather
our flames will spread further
devour prehistoric forests
**** roots and tree trunks to bare bone
and march in a coronation parade
upon the city gates
behind a revolutionary brigade
of angry red army ants

finally, those flames
will surround a broken boombox
lost behind a landfill-mound
of moth-chewed cardboard moving boxes
containing the soft stains of dream and memory
tagged, painted, and graffitied
in white out, in sharpie
duct tape peeling from perforated speakers
the flashlight-sized battery compartment
an empty coffin

i didn't cry the day you died. i'm sorry. the reality that you had passed away at barely twenty-five didn't really hit me, even at your eulogy and that still haunts me. they say that denial is the first stage of addiction but I assumed that you knew that death was a possible side-effect of your prescription. about two weeks after your wake, it hit me like a train. i was riding the n judah to the end of the line at ocean beach when I passed a throw-up piece that you had painted a few years before in the train tunnel near haight and cole. it was a big letter "a" in lowercase with an exclamation point next to it. i once asked you what it meant. you shrugged and said, "i just like the shape of it," and something clicked. it was then that i realized (that)

the flames of our light, love and laughter
move faster than the speed of life
and those flames pass us by in the blink of an eye
if we're not quick enough to catch 'em
and return the letters like stars
we borrowed, typed, stole, scribbled and scrawled across the pages of the sky
back to the sprawling library of the night
where they belong    
where we belong

Last Summer I dream't that I danced with you around the same time this year.
Alone in the park by the soles of filled shoes.
The indie sound of hearts racing in constant wonderment.
Tuning down the sound of our voices.
Our hands fitting perfectly inside one another.
The light of our eyes illuminating the sun.
Last Summer I couldn't begin to tell you how much I loved you.
Pyromaniacs in love with the Summer sun.
Falling in love with the deep circles our feet made.
Dancing alone in the park, recognizing ourselves in the reflection see through each others eyes.
The only escape that fills the massive void felt last Summer.
Listening to the sound of your voice laying down.
Feeling whole. Your hand inside if mine.
A recreation of this Summer seen last Summer.
Slowly looking up, holding on to the memories of last Summer

It's not the crackle of the flames,
Or the smell of sulfur,
Or the heat of fire,
That makes us stand in awe.

It's the total consuming aspect,
The way it glitters in our hearts,
And leaves everything in ruin,
That makes us light it up.

Leaving charred remnants of things once valued,
Forcing them to become discarded as worthless and broken,
This equalizer, this fire, it is a balancing force of power,
To be respected and feared, yet also revered.

October bonfires for Autumn lesser pyromaniacs ,
with Oak , Hickory and Fall leaves , ashes floating
in the Black Moon night , they ride into star clusters
then fade out of sight
Locked in flames allure , counseled by fire , glowing
embers , hypnotic flickering light , running nightfall shadows o'er the hardwood lines  
Gardenia perfume , warm coats , our uncloaked breath mingling with sweet smoke , cricket songs , hand-made skewers with
bratwurst and marshmallows
Trading stories , relearning one another ,
growing stronger , warmer , drawn into the wavering glow , crackling
tinder , white ash flurry , kindling eventide mellow* ..

The fire burns bright
A pyromaniacs delight
The smoke eternally rises
It burns off our disguises
We sit and watch in awe
As we stare into our own proto-star
It gives light but it consumes
It gives life and seals dooms
Two sides of the burnt coin

Pyromaniacs
Sometimes seen as not quite right
Too much fun with fire

You have fallen to your knees
Who will teach you to walk the line when I am faded
When I am burnt out

I was playing with pyromaniacs
Pyromaniacs playing with fire
Fire leading them along
Fire teaching them to dance
Undulating their whole body
Letting fear find their fingers
Fear bind their tongues
Some lessons no sooner learnt than forgotten
This one not among them

She is not lost
She who runs hell
She who dances naked in the halls
With thorns pressed into her hands
Grasping at roses not yet bloomed

You press on my bruises
Wishing for them to bleed
Have you never met shooting stars
The ones the sky let's rule for a solitary moment,
the earth's candle wishes

This is the way fire dances
A soul barren of burden
Though she claim all your possessions
And bite the tongue behind your teeth
You will not remember, what held so little light
A tender bite with a wild appetite

People who say love is beautiful have either never experienced it,
or are indeed pyromaniacs.

Why are you not working
Do you want to get fired?
Run amuck, berzerking
You shouldn't play with fire.

Are we pyromaniacs?
Yes, we arson.
They keep saying that
We're gonna get burn.

Heartbreaks
turn
heartaches
into
written poetries

And
recoveries
set ablaze
those
old
paper sheets

Oh!
the things
that
love can do;

create
pyromaniacs
and


air pollution,
too.

Could you pawn enough courage to smile and pretend that everything is going to be fine? Just this time. One last time.

While the lines are blurred, and cries inside unheard, know that as the end unfurls it is that way by design.

As we cower like cowards in corners we run towards the cracks as the daylight chases us to remind us of the debt we owe for squandering every streak of light  on fights and afternoon delights, you and I knew somehow, we needed a place to hide. In an obscured sense, it is that of saying goodbye.

When I set the pen down and let ink bleed into the parchment, when I twiddle my thumbs cognizant of the things I meant, much is pondered about why the room in your heart I pay rent and as a tenant, I’m flagged delinquent.

And on your end, all along, you had all of me tucked in your hand. The silence too abstruse for one to comprehend and is unnerving.

Perhaps you found me undeserving of a love always teetering on the brink just waiting to succumb to gravity. Now the weight of unspoken truth bears down so heavily on us as we fall apart.

This throbbing anxiety seems to walk the road of eternity and in our insanity, we were two pyromaniacs playing fire with destiny, and destiny, a sadist as it may be, there is a horizon bordering its cruelty and honestly, we were vampires driving stakes in each other’s heart.

What I meant is speak your truth or forever hold your peace, for while we had our falling we loved nonetheless. No matter how we repress the past together you and I undressed and the future fraught with regrets, I must confess, though I detest, today we leave what we  had and we leave it to rest.

I’ve heard it said that love
is friendship caught fire
And while I have often
warmed by bones amid your glow
You have never burned me

Even as coals from our tiny campfire
flung sparks into the air
that would disappear
before touching the ground
or our too near tent
You never burned me

No, I think instead
Love is friendship
which has produced fire

Words matter

Catching fire lends itself
to images of burning buildings
of holes in walls
and little boys falling asleep
cradled in a parents warm embrace
but waking up alone
abandoned
scared.

scary
catching fires are scary.

Produced fires are intentional
they are tended and protected
secured against the elements
boundaries placed around
to enjoy the benefits of the product
while limiting the potential harms inherent to
fire
love

The fire produced by our friendship
has warmed our children
has given them light to learn by
and best
a beacon home

Precious needs met
after years in the nuclear winter
that came after the flash and burn
of friendships CAUGHT fire

Victims of traumatic house fires though
rarely go on to become pyromaniacs
Hearts -both big and small
stamped forever with a warning label:
“This item may cause fire which can result in personal injury and even death”  

Caution is a virtue

Freezing in the shadow of a skyscraper
The newspaper collectors
Building tents to the ire of city government
"Lighting fires" to calm a cold crazed environment
The unaided dangerous , the unrecognized , 'the ignorant'
The belligerent , the political tool , the ticketed and the
arraigned*
The miffed , the rotten , the gifted , the forgotten
Spoiled  , the lofty , the will-do and their atrocity ...
Blame it on the Jews , point at the homosexuals ,
contain the Christians , foil Muslim aggression , the racist whites
the intolerant blacks , the free thinkers , the wall builders
The contained and the "pyromaniacs" ...

In the perpetual pursuit
of planetary pleasures,
a purported supporter of such
paranormal potions must
ponder: is pleasure, in principle,
the peak,
or perhaps is it a journey,
from point O to point P
purposely pouncing to provide
pyromaniacs with plentiful
planks for the pyre.

The Irish optical illusion
society are preparing to
launch a new spectacle for
20/20 which by all accounts
is going to deceive the nation
into a mirage mode that will
be similar in effect, to a Velux™
porthole in a dark staircase with
no handrail and uneven treads.

Tests have been ongoing in the
North Cork town of Mallow
where the local river reflects
by name, the most sombre
inhabited area of the republic.

Bono of U2 has been selected
to promote these boy focals.

A #MeToo spokesperson has
complained to the board of
equal opportunities, as have
the Irish Guide Dog Association,
both organisations are adamant
that they are not going to take
being kept in the dark, lightly.

An RTE weather reader spoke to
a Guardian journalist and explained
that while the rest of the world were
benefitting from Glow Ball Warming,
the population of Hibernia are being
neglected by the Universal temperature
increases that Greta Thunberg has been
advocating during her world wide tour.

From such a country of Catholic believers,
there has been a huge amount of dissenters
denouncing the disciples of carbon calamity
as hoaxers, satanists and latent pyromaniacs /˜

Evening and horses
I'm walking on the bottom of an ancient sea
The bottom is flat and rich in grapes and cabbage.
The used to be a lake here, but it disappeared
What is left is a small stream that gets its water from
Water below. On the lake that was, and no longer is
Helicopter pilots practice take-off and landing
Some gipsy horses graze nearby and ignore the noise
The choppers make- I took a picture of one going in
For landing, it belongs to the fire department, many fires
During the hot summer, some fires need to burn
And some fires are caused by pyromaniacs.
But never mind I will see my doctor at the hospital tomorrow
She is like a beautiful race horse on the wrong side of fifty,
She is forever telling me what not to eat; she told me curry
Was fattening once and I said nothing on her desk there is
A picture of her husband he is a pilot.

Logic takes the back seat with Western, Marxian, post-modern women who believe that radiation-sickness is cancer therapy and that mammae ablation is a pre-emptive victory over inevitable, hereditary, tumorous growth. There are good rapists and there are bad rapists. There are good Baptists and there are bad Baptists. There are good abortionists and there are bad abortionists. There are good pyromaniacs and there are bad pyromaniacs. There are good cops and there are bad cops.

The late David Bowie's dead after nearly dying on tour from a *** liver of trophoblasts that divided his core. The crematory's jets burned with a roar which for pyromaniacs enhanced the oven's flesh-burning allure. Bending from the mid-point will test a fat flap pull no better than a lard *** *****'s zip or a zap'll. At night, when virgins sleep, lambs are born from experienced sheep. Say what you must when you must say it as copious spit is launched like sprayed-on spray **** long after the king's admiralty judged Lieutenant Bligh fit.

KAYA
Flying totems,Shooting flares
Hunting wolves,Grizzly bears
Kicking aass & takin names,
Pyromaniacs,Starting flames
They tryna *** with me
My Btich aas enemies,
So i blow the horn
To take him on
3 way communication
VOIP
High & mighty
Slim n Ice -T
Like a mod-em
Called Emin-em
Bring Ammunition
We gotta destroy a nation
Eliminate a whole creation,
Put sanctions on em
Make em form lines for food
Rations,
****
To *** them up
I’ll collude  with the
Russians!
Brush em
Aside
Make em
Suicide on the
Sea side
Then i ride
Back
With my back pack
On my back
My Glock i pack
Arrows then i stack
With my bow
Rockin my Black
Tuxedo
In my black Mercedes
Shoot them first
Then im aiming
Ring Master/whip lashing
Circus monkey
******* Taming
Run him over
Then i save him
GTA/PS4
**** these hoes
Like im
Gaming!

Being your light was hard
I fed my disappointments to pyromaniacs
Itching to strike matches against your spine
Breathing, into your hair
Begging, light me up
When my light finally does fade
Remember me
As the dirt under your nails
Sprinkle it on my grave
Along with your tears
This is goodbye

Judging is synonymous to sizing up. We judge weather, prices, dog breeds, people. Humans analyze & judge. That's how we're made. Elitism entails the consolidation of power. We're seen as slaves. Slaves don't own guns. Slaves don't own land. To judge is the human prerogative, to keep company with people of your choosing. If you're opposed to pyromania don't keep time with pyromaniacs. If you reject the nonsense that life emanated from a universal explosion, then shun evolutionists. Political correctness is cultural Marxism and Marxian dogma is enslaving, not liberating.

I have built a house for myself,
Not of wood, lest the pyromaniacs
Not of glass, beware the stone throwers.

But of flesh.
Of skin and borrowed time.
Of faces and hands and backs and shoulders.

Most from my friends, others
Of my enemies and friends of friends,
Distant relatives, mostly dead.
And the few folk I’ve prodded to force that hand.

I cannot look inside my house.
The door is always open and the front mat is an arched spine.
The walls are covered in wincing and no furniture lay about.

I cannot look in the mirrors
For a heap reasons I cannot tell you
You simply wouldn’t believe me
I will tell you only that they look back at you

There is no fireplace
So I hope you’ve packed a sleeping bag
No food to be had here either
Begone your selfish needs

The roof is all but hands lending help along the way.
They collect as much rain as possible
Then the house floods

And the stench is enough to make you weep

Always wear your thickest boots when walking all over the rugs and others,
Tends to not wear out the tread as much

All in all it’s not much of a home
Just right for not much of a man.