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| by comrade commissar | Thomas | @ Sunday, April 02, 2006, 4:41:00 AM | permalink |
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Take out a matchstick from a box of twenty, strike it. Flick that into a nearby prepared heap of flammables, watch the entire thing come alive alight, a eye-widening aggressiveness, a WHOOSH, and a blinding flare scarring right into your retina. Night turns into day. And the pile quivers in the heat, aching, consuming upon itself. Tiny wood splinterettes lifting themselves hesitantly off their parent planks.. slowly, then ever quickly, lifting up and off, blasting into the cold darkness of the night and the gazillions space nightlamps twinkling insignificantly across the sky carpet draped over the horizons. The little fragments almost escape by trajectory, only to light up at the very last moment into smoky nothingnesses, a quickie of a tiny red glow before they go, many more other embers following quickly after upward. Fly you little pieces, run away from your crumbling wooden homes, from the crackling and the breaking down of everything left behind. Fly off and transform into irreversible inconsequentials. Because the cottage wood is burning away and the creaking signals that everything now is going, burning, going, up in smoke, gone. Fly off with empty dreams of wonderful futures and whole new meaning. Fly fly fly, fly fly fly, fry. Do you smell the smoky soot? Does it sting your eyes? See the blaze claw outward, destructive and hungry, the surrounding field grass confused then conflagrated, bright pieces torn off their roots and drawn right in by air intake to the centre yellow-red intensity of a voracious all-consuming fire. In the greenery's place a smoldering blacken char. Watch the ends singe. And then the high altar of stacked up burning wood splits ear-piercingly, a chain reaction of falling down, the bright yellowness disintergrating even more as it goes down, many new fragments exploding outward and upward out of the pyre, flickering out one after another. Its still burning. Furious, loud air-sucking howling. Boxes of matches in the hand, minus one. Why? The heat finally gets to it, blinding flash and KABOOM. The metal-canned kerosene gives up and a huge fireball violently emerges ripping apart its glowing predecessors, mushrooming high to burn like a star, swirling in its semi-oxidised volumes of gas. Enveloped by the heat wave that passes swiftly through, stand still. Watch it. Watch it burn. Watch it continue afterwards. Stand still and watch the erupted shell eat itself out, die, burning to glowing to struggling to lingering to nothing. |
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<--latest post-- sheep groupies--not my business anyway--pipe dreams--i <3 mosaic fest--much too much myspace--giddy gig review quickie--appreciations--gig news: electrico, lunarin, astreal @ the art hse--back from india--overseas till mar 5-- --last post--> |
