SOMETHING IS ALWAYS BURNING by Max Stone
SOMETHING IS ALWAYS BURNING
Inhibitions softened and slick.
Night Prince of my stressed kingdom.
Flippy confidence. Bounce around nowhere and nightlife.
Pine tar. Sticky fingers. Tangerine amphetamines.
The girl slipped out of me, left an opening for the embers.
Firestorm brain—Amygdala all glowed up.
Spit myself out. Thwack of danger.
Lack of sleep. So, you know, no reprieve.
The Orcas know what to do
when the water comes for us.
Some bleeping eternalness—a big orange infinity.
In my threnody era. Brooding all night
under cartoony dark storm clouds.
Tough time to be a tree.
Possibly I am flying, or baby-hummingbird-hovering, at least.
Suddenly, I’m a breeze, the cool part of town,
vintage leather, the median and the most.
Really want to kick over that lamp
and crush the daffodils. Ego bruise yellowing.
Predilection for miracle, like, “Hail-Mary pass,”
like, “Law of Attraction,” like, “It’s gonna be okay.”
Fomenting in medicated lotions, bc like, it might help.
Craggy purple terrain. Uphill inclination.
You ask, would they even notice? They’d notice.
A girl lights a beer box on fire just to watch it burn.
It’s like licking a glacier (spearmint flavored vape).
Deadbeat mattress kickin’ it on the ocean’s couch. Ersatz ice-floe.
The sun again the sun again the sun burning my bloody lip.
“Hey, I kinda know you!” “Need a light?”
Give an eyelash to the air as a gift-wish for a stranger.
Half-moon tattoo on a pinkie finger.
Like yeah, cling on to your youth. Of course.
Linger there, quivering.
Be less machine. Escape the Overculture.
Gas station bathroom lighting. A scintilla of cinnamon.
Globules of new bloom. I drowned a plant. So sorry.
Lay in the dark, popcorn ceiling stare,
wait for day when it’s okay to be awake.
Filigreeing flame tickling your socks.
Drink water. Act natural. Body condition deteriorating.
Thirst still beats a way. Cremated lakes.
Courtney Love’s dad gave her LSD as a baby.
I feel like a Joan Mitchell painting—the later years.
Heat. Heat shifts the light. Burning the hate.
It will end soon.
My arm twisted into an impossible shape, grasping
at the smoke-filled air,
chasing Apollo’s chariot,
my fingers like cigarettes burning to nothing.
Red and black stained-glass heart hung in the window for protection.
Fragility and scarcity and green intellect.
“I drew you on fire. Want to see?”
Walk between flames and endless light.
