Little Glaciers

I’ve been talking about fire like
we’re on
a first name basis;

an orange skinned
racist raised
to revile
yellow
whose legs muscles turn to gelatine
when he’s seen what’s
become of
his fellow
sparks.

As if he is
the wiseman here, indeed
widening my
horizons,
as a thousand years
worth
of broken hearts is
all in
an honest day’s
work.

Judge messiahs by
their
girth and eventually they
demand you fellate.

If you put all
your faith
in smoking guns,
only bullets can
solve a feud.

If the world view you base this
brutality
upon is too
far gone to facilitate
a fair return;

well, good sir,
I’ve
entertained your verses through the
death of sober
second
thought.

Mistake me not, I’m no
third degree burn
myself.

A heart of ice encourages
its own brand of hell,
devils impervious
to the same
waters they
first felt
touch infant
skin.

I’ve been talking about fire in
ways
Lucifer could not
romanticize its writs,
but for
the
privilege I’ve aborted
my warmth like late
October,

a foetal four
leaf
clover left to
first snowfall, weathering
every one since.

Dark horse
of ochre devils,
doppelgänger to a
smoker’s final
breath.

Wildfire at the long
winters’ behest,
I was given
the best of
both ice and its
irate
cousin to bludgeon
against all
odds.

As for
where that warmth
has gone,
you can ask me in
the spring
when

my little glacier
thaws.

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