Gasoline for all the times I've been warned about a candle
A cold sweat. Oil and puss dripping from a spackled ceiling in the very shape of the continent on my right arm. A quilted sea of sheets, a messy head of green hair, A white shipping crate of memories, all things that belonged to someone else.
A straw hat, decaying in a plastic case never meant to hold such anger, along with Dave Mustaine's last breaths of relevance and pulp scifi that would give Moorecock a stiff one, it melted heavily into concrete and jewels of broken glass. Bloated and uneven like a beached whale.
A kitchen filled with kinetic energy of undetermined sentiment and anguish. Insurance could never calculate it's value in any meaningful way. "Have a good night!!"
A brass ring lost in a sea of loose chain.
Teary eyes in smoke, the scent of the lake and grit of sand on the rim of a half drank corona. Exchanges of dead animals in an insensitive cadence.
A Post traumatic nightcap watching a trophy shop glow it's final moments under power lines, sat comfortably on shingles in sweats of distinct fragrance and shoes 2 1/2 sizes too large.
In medias res of all things that deemed themselves fit to burn. Ashes to ashes, dust to be cleaned.