you are caught, your car idle in the midst of a multitude of petroleum guzzlers. shit. bumper to bumper traffic. you look at your watch, and the air is thick. noxious, intermingling with the smell of cooking meat. man, that fucking cab in front of you must not be meeting their emissions requirements. you stick your head out of the window to shout(a gaggle of pigeons ascend, wheeling and squawking) curses and stop (a feather alights on the asphalt and it is burning) when your jaw drops. the burning man puts a dent on your hood as he trips on your bumper. he makes a sound one thinks would be heard only in the inferno of hell. he is gone, down the side alley, his thinning wail, the dent, and the almost delicious(human meat! you feel your gorge rising)tang of burning flesh, the only evidence of his scorched passage.
This was the day! He shivered in anticipication, his mind dancing through honeyed amore dappled visions of her aquamarine eyes widening in surprise, these lips(honeyed sweetmeats to be suckled and savored, then devoured)working into an O of surprise. He knew her well. Her hands would rise to her mouth(if only i could suckle onto thee for eternity!)and flutter with a delicate shivering. he hoped she would faint. His vision raced. Yes, she would faint, falling with a butterfly’s touch into his arms, and he would still be on his knee, the glittering symbol of their love and his promise to be true to her forever clutched in his hand. His love, yes, his love, oh how he loved the sound of that! His love! She would[hey you boy wat] make a soft sound, her eyelids[ch out oh fuck! bo]fluttering while he moved a lock of spun gold out of the passage of her magnificent jeweled gaze, and uttered the magic word, the affirmative that would make her his forever, an affirmative that would still be on her lips when he devoured her[y get out of]rubicund lips. Then it rained.
——–the way its fu———
“why do you have to bring around that fucking prissy dog all the time?”
her husband was just the product of a stressful life of corporate cat and mouse games. she cooed reassurances to fifi. the poodle had a clear line of saliva running from her panting tongue to the prada purse she was nestled into. “Fifi, waht did mommy tell you about drooling? Waldorth, light.”
The husband was burning, and his face turned red. fucking wife treating him like a lowly, common(he spat the word in his mind’s eye)butler! The painter on a nearby platform turned at the sound of the wife s voice, and knocked over a bucket. Fucking idiot, Waldorth mused, and after all he had done for her, she still looked at his rise through the corporate levels as a mere trifling! nevertheless, he took his ragged matchbook -last one- and struck the flint. the air smelled poisonous, solvent, wasnt it? She leaned in close, and the tip of her cigarette glowed fierce red. a wreath of smoke loiters and is expelled as she exhales. The match burns Waldorth s hand and he tosses it to the side.
—cking going to fall—-
It was raining, stinking, his eyes burning, his hair dripping abrasive liquid, then it was raining fire his mind blanking out everything but these aquamarine eyes, lashes fluttering, her lips forming her inevitable acceptance to be with him in sickness and in health, as long as we live.
he struck the match. it flared and commenced the inevitable crawl to the end of the line. soon it would extinguish, like her love for him.
he had been weeping. his eyes burned. he couldnt believe it. she had said no, and sent him away, even after he showed her the ring! he was on the mountain of his love for her, and the top was an eternity away. he had pledged his love a thousand times, tears tracing roads down his cheeks, agonized platitudes falling from his working, spittle laden mouth to shatter into empty silence on the floor of her kitchen. he was the vessel and she was the wine. without something to hold, the vessel was purposeless. she had left him and he had stumbled the streets in a daze, arriving at an exxon without knowing how he got there.
the empty boy watched the flame trickle down the match. the air quavered from the rising fumes that were everywhere, on his skin, on his hair, and his clothes were soaked. he left behind footprints which quickly evaporated in the hot day, and smiled mirthlessly when the flame tickled his thumb.
A Failed Symposium
these are two possible interpretations of the burning man out of an infinity of possibility. i want to hear the most wildest the most inconceivable stories here! all in the name of good fun and for the sake of wordslinging.