When it burns, the inferno
turns you into something not
quite finished and not yet
transformed and only
know your limits while the world
sits by and waits for its
‘pièce de résistance’ to rise from the
rebirth it gave you
like it had handed you first prize
when you had not yet picked
the numbers.

Your monster wears its party fangs
without asking first:
the current climate
calling for partial nudity and
cluster fucks with strangers who
drop their unweaned smiles
like crumbs inside the dirty of your lap –
and on and on it goes,
to martyr
to fall upon
deafened eyes and those blind
of learning.

It burns, this puppetry,
in crowds of pantomime,
for the melting of your heart;
its wax upon the crutches of
you have
chiselled from your chest to bury alone.
It burns, and
you know only how to self-combust and welcome death
for you fear it will one day leave without you –
and where would you run to
without those karmic ties to reign you in
or pull you back
or weave themselves inside to commandeer you.

Beneath this sweltering burst of oppression,
soiled and seeded, and
planted by the ankles in concrete shoes;
beneath the heatwave that rides you like you need an awakening;
beneath you – the hotplate – the hot knife – the hotel
embellished with red-black highways,
and roads of bloodshot weariness
raining from your eyes,

you, in party fangs
and crawling upon dusty knees
all over,
in and out
– Karma’s glove –
for anywhere else
but the squalor of this doomed acceptance.

© Tamara Natividad | | Written 09 March, 2018

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