A Burning

I burnt my fingers on this one whistling down the wind and on and on the wind is winding.
Metamorphosis or this or that goes ratter tat tat and the beats are pounding keep pounding.
The blood’d boil and spoil and blister and the mist’d fall and call the climbing wall a crawler.
Doors open bone welcome forever never let the fever wither in a cool soothing shelter for better.
Cocooned beatific tune flipping flapping tap tap tapping it new and renewed anew.
And the devil keeps the watch on you with matches to throw it all away again in ashes.

I burnt my last impulse trying to get arrested in a harsh light half right all the time bright.
Catacombs forgive us our religious blundering singing a sing song of diamond glimmerings.
Cracked outer layers lay black jack paddy whack attacks on your back for not looking.
The package was open soaking incision of string and dressing mending a bend in the wind.
Something happened or maybe didn’t a thing expecting the half wind to blow the right direction.
Watching is one thing when he takes out his spark in the dark for a half star and no other.

As you pile up the ashes on your own time right to be tried on the act of asking.
Burn let it burn let it hang and hands are bleeding open hands and heeling thick skin beginning.

Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor


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