Party People,

His eyes were the struck sulphur, his eyelashes the thinnest matchsticks that never shortened no matter how long they were lit. When he smiled you saw the sharp dancing flame ends. Opened wider his mouth spread wild rumors with a tongue of blue. And his kiss which softly melted the skin his lips touched, left gentle scars.

As he breathed in stoking air and out propane festooned in bright orange, his chest expanded and came back like a backdraft. Flame shot out his nostrils and out his mouth. He walked leaving a trail of burnt earth the shape of his feet, and his footsteps in the grass smoking with embers shown the path of his stern and haunted pacing. Twisting all around him the air.

But what happened deeper beneath that pulsing torso, a heart set by an affair as all burning does, from some sweet word whispered in his ear, or bitter as "I'm leaving you" - the diction of combustion. Now he will set the world in his image, this man on fire, and let die what will caught in his conflagration, and let live what like the stars holding their position in the firmament without smoke for what seems like an eternity.

Thanks to the Kazuya-Akimoto Art Museum.

Peace and God Bless.