I’VE GOT A FIRE THAT BURNS ALL NIGHT FOR YOU (BABY)

FOR, IN THE BEGINNING ALL WAS FIRE,
AND,
HAVING THUS FAR RECEIVED NO MEMO REGARDING THE END OF THE BEGINNING,
I CAN ONLY DEDUCE ALL STILL IS.

THE SMELL OF A FIRE IS THE DIGESTION OF ITS DINNER,
THE SCENT OF A BONFIRE IS THE STENCH OF NEPOTISM.
I WON’T RESENT ITS PROMOTION.
BUT COULD YOU, WOOD YOU, HELP ME TOO?

COS THIS FIRE HAS NO APPETITE, IT BURNS AT BOTH ENDS.
OH, IT COULDN’T CARE LESS
BECAUSE ANGER IS ITS ENERGY —
BUT ALSO JOY, SADNESS AND THE OTHER ONES TOO;
NUANCED.
NOT JUST A HOTTIE,
A COMPLICATED FELLOW.

THIS FIRE SMELLS OF CLOSE, HOT BREATH, SWEETENED WITH GENTLY INFLAMED TONSILS,
SELF-CONTAINED INFECTION,
SMOULDERING AWAY,
KEPT AT BAY
WITH ORANGES.

FIRE ON A STICK, TO BE SOLD AT THE FAIR,
BURNING FLAGS, FLAMING TORCHES, FLUTTERING MATCHES.
CONTROLLED BURNS PREVENT WILD FIRES.
HAMMOCKED IN SCALDING TENDRILS,
I AWAIT THE PHOENIX.

Within that chronic flame were worlds and chambers,

boardrooms and grottos,

populated by your hot, your bothered, your huddled masses,

yearning for someone to crack a window.

Sensing a gap, quick as oil, only slicker,

this guy from the corner of your eye

is out and tumbling.

Reverse Icarus,

just as scalded.

The unhappy meeting of objects in space

left hanging.

Waiting for the cool moon’s salve

to bathe the livid cells of his curs-ed little body.

Brief respite from the itching, tingling hate.

Was it something I said,

or something his grandmother ate?

Become a sign through sheer, dumb presence,

Creak in the breeze.

Sorry, are you still open?

Here there be monsters.

The loves of teenage girls

so roundly discredited,

(apart from The Beatles, Elvis, and whatever papa later venerated)

based on the promises decoded

from a curl on the brow;

pin-up for the ages; 

cipher of now.

At the strike of one,

that ghost arrives 

— having hawked his noble steed for a hybrid car —

sees the beast tangled in your stars,

thinks he should dislodge it.

He croons of

the good, the bad, and the binary.

The only grey area being 

his metal finery.

Which prevents slings and arrows of any depth 

penetrating. 

Hey, I don’t wanna upset you baby, but I should say,

your idols, they have feet of clay.

You’d have found out sooner or later, even if I'da smashed those toes to bits for you,

marmalised them with thuds into mud

so you never even knew they had ‘em.

'Cos pottery is eternal baby

 — you ever been to a museum?

Mesopotamia, baby, their morsels still knock about.

Babylonia, my darling, they’re still finding out.

Even if the dinosaurs had made 'em, baby, I tell you, they’d still linger

(though they’d be shit; no delicacy in a t-rex finger).

Basically, what I’m saying, baby, is don’t meet your heroes.

For, 

I suspect your champion choice is poor.

But,

don’t mewl, don’t fret, don’t stew,

you’ve got me now

— you’ll want no more.

‘Cos I'm offering:

 a head for romance

 and a heart for business.

 p.s. you’re welcome.