The Fond of Burning Things

In the gathering steam and sizzle,
innocence borne on the cleft tongues
and snake oiling scales of just and rust,
turn green in the enzymes –
the endtimes just months away
from release and streaming.

My god has it been this long?
Broth turned to black reduction,
that acrid muck,
forgotten on a back burning coil,
while I sniffed the air for musk
and cardamom,
while I taste the dirt and slick
crushed biscuits in the mat,
and for what?

Steam carries dissolution,
no two ways about it,
flavor is the concentration
of dead upon dead,
scraped up fond of burning things.

This is madness,
conflagration,
cultivated extermination,
but I reel and I swoon
and roll back repulsion
with a carnivore’s lust for melting fats,
with a vegan’s lust for imitation,
with a child’s zest to burn ants
with sunbeams, focused
to a pinprick.

Image: Adrien Olichon on Unsplash

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