From a friend's beat up Corolla
see the pylons of state highways.
I could put all my things in one
and inside the pylon I'd stay.
The distant roar of traffic
like the swellings of the sea,
would make wakefulness and dreams
align momentarily*.
I lit fires as a child.
Lynx Africa was my flame-thrower.
An amateur arsonist,
but I'm still burning down the bridge they built from me to you
to stay warm and alone.
When I pass into the next plane
don't put a stone beside a grave
- burn my body by the lagoon
of the North-Western motorway.
You can watch from Newton bridge
as my bones begin to switch
from something into nothing,
some kid'll say, "was she a witch?"
And remember me inaccurately,
edit out the bits I played the devil's advocate.
An amateur arsonist,
Hitler's jizz doesn't melt steel beams but our words do
to stay warm and alone.
We shook off our coils to build a chain-link fence together
and wrapped our battered world in barbed wire forever.
A place under the sun for me and you
where our territories have better stories than Earth's teenage tattoos.
* "align momentarily" stolen from David Berman's 'Nights That Won't Happen'
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