Sunday, May 1, 2016

Incognito, Indistinct


Incognito, Indistinct






In the killing fine fabric
of inflorescent flame
we walk, we burn,
dwindling from kindling
to inglorious smut
alone in a dark
our dying lights up.
  
Murderers in red
boil a soup from the dead.
In our hollowed heads
honed hidden things move,
their inhalation our blood,
their exhale the air
where the fire fed.


~May 2016





posted for     real toads










Image: The Return of the Flame, 1943, Rene Magritte
Fair Use via wikiart.org

 

 







12 comments:

  1. This is a wonderful in its apocalypicness... the sense that the word is kilned by hidden things inside... The "no intelligent lifeforms" made me think of a future where even bread and circuses have been replaced by brimstone and vitriol and all through our own doing.

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  2. This one runs dark with blood and flames, hedge! Potent stuff.

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  3. So many images blazing in the darkness, fed by it, burning with it... This makes me think of the nature of energy, how regardless of what kind of energy it might be--negative or positive--its power will still fuel the fire that drives us... or ends us.

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  4. Talk about your Monsters Inside Me, yeesh! I love the wording here, with the dwindling from kindling and so on, but the notion of a half-love transforming itself from light burn to airborne plague is what gives this such bite.

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  5. Yee-ow! The stuff of nightmares and horror movies and worse. Brilliantly done.

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  6. That's a great title, and sums up the depth of the piece.

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  7. "Murderers in red
    boil a soup from the dead."

    I want to steal that and make it mine!

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  8. So much love for this:
    "dwindling from kindling
    to inglorious smut"

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  9. Wonderfully distilled, with great devilish music. thanks. k.

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  10. I'm struck by the apparent imagery cycle here--the fire, fierce then dying; the transformation to the blood for the hidden things, the exhalations becoming fire breeding air. Quite a life we lead... Such an imaginative response to the prompt, so many disparate ideas all tied up neatly at the ending. A bracing morning tonic, to be sure!

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  11. Hi Hedge, sorry so late ... Isn't this dude out walking tonight over Fort McMurray? A consumptive fella, dapper in "killing fine fabric," "inflorescent" the way inbreath feeds a fire. A cancer. Second stanza is exquisite torture, holding a torch to an infinite itch.

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  12. that dark conjuring at the top of the TP ticket... where 'honed hidden things move' ~

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'Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance' ~Carl Sandburg