Spontaneous Combustion

Hair slices the peach parting -
I stare at my reflection and laugh.

Spontaneous combustion fires
through thoughts as I check
if my breath has any gas left in it.
Pockets full of danger and old pieces
of flesh, I jump through the closed window
into the night - glass decorates dishevelled clothes
and I reflect on who shall die this night.

It might be me again - I don't know yet.
The voice of self-abandonment cuts its wrists.

Sexual harassment
has intercourse with insipid personality
as I grab a clump of weeds
from the nearest garden -
my love likes pretty things,
I think and straighten my twitch
in the dead dust
of a wing-mirror's broken rusting.

I think of shooting jackets and sickbays
while spaghetti westerns roam the blood
staining shoelaces - twisting with alive.

Psychosomatic - my tidy desk
staples memory
into neat little sheets
before photocopying drama.

And there she is - my grave love:
all polished with the tears I collected
when she died in my arms.
Furious heartbeat screams
at veins to slice into infinity,
but I casually ignore the depths
of anguish and wet myself.

On my knees - I drag soil
from the darkest cries,
reach for my last...
and spill malt liquor from my nose.

Nearly there - I cough decay
with pleasure, my erection
bursting through sanity.
Her stench is beautiful.

Suddenly arms have me -
lights pop and sirens mock.
Faces whisper shouting words
but I am not there anymore.
I telephone history and receive
instructions with imagery
typing itself into a frail existence.
Wild - I become death.

I see cold metal rise towards
my head as I fight my captors.
The hole I look down catches my eye
and smiles with a burst
of light, I calmly wave
at the remains of my beloved
before the bullet caresses thoughts
with pure powered flight.