firegob and flametongues


 summer mornings
 my fire
 is snuffed

 I have no flaming voice
 only a word in your head

 dream of the spelt and salt
 cake I will fire for you

 and before you can seek
 the future
 from the way I burn

 clean my fireplace, clear your head
 old ash and cinders block gust
 makes for poor-burning,
 makes for poor-thinking

 prepare my gob
 for my tongues
 my gob is packed with ash

 piled ash in my grate
 piled ash in my head
 crumbles like walls
 from incendiaried homes

 stop wandering off
 when I’m talking to you!
 ash up against my fire-bars
 makes them overheat
 makes you overthink

 so they sag and “burn through”
 make me virginal
 something to focus on
 something for focus

 recall collecting ears
 of spelt in reaper’s baskets

 I said stop wandering!

 rake remains of my last fire
 the last fire between my temples
 so ash falls through my grate
 train steam in your nostrils

 pick-off the cinders for re-use.

 my lightweight dark lumps,
 not my powdery un-burnable
 pieces of roasted shale
 my exhausted voice

 clear my fire-bars of small cinders,
 clear all my ash, clear all the dead,
 dry bones out of my head

 recall the crush, grind then roast the ears of spelt, yeasty
 like a pint of beer

 Concentrate! You are lighting me

 fill my gob
 with dry, unfinished paper
 cheap-newsprint not glossy magazine-print. screw sheets into rough balls,
 packed into this brain space
 not too tight, but not too loose.

 keep the paper open & crinkly
 don’t pack paper into hard nuggets,
 make them roughly spherical.

    should cover my grate,
 with plenty of space to allow gust
 to blow away focus these eyes

 only one layer, as my tongues
 lick paper down

 everything on top will drop,
 roof falling in around my ears
 leave it at a couple of inches

 recall preparing the salt,
 pound crystals from the brine
 from a salt pan in a mortar,
 pack and inhale seafret
 cut the lump with an iron saw

 I’ll not tell you again!

 paper is to ignite the wood (next),
 the next thought
 only enough,
 too much will clog fire-bars
 cause stack-collapse

 as your paper doesn’t burn well,
 stuff a loose sheet under my grate
 under my thoughts
 light it let my little tongues loose
 stuff sheets underneath
 burn them

 recall forbidden
 reading, books in flame,
 memories of things not spoken
 discarded ideas

 I can be dangerous!

 break up my ash with a poker

 recall stir of salt and spelt
 into carried spring water pure
 never touched the ground
 into meal that must be rested

 my pulped treeflesh
 I will lick away
 a support for my woodflesh
 I will lick away
 a flicker of an idea
 a first layer of contemplation


 my thought needs substance
 crouched supplicant
 to our hearthmind
 layer my gob

 can’t light my coal with paper
 my wood layer is for coal
 as my paper is for wood

 layer on my paper
 small pieces of wood (kindling)
 watch for splinters embedding
 in your fingers for pain all day
 or a heated steel pin to remove.
 with care
 make a wooden-pallet
 a raft of images
 on balled up paperwaves
 to support my coal
 so my imagination flares
 as I burn to speak

 You pray the raft will hold
 criss-cross the wood
 a cohesive structure
 your making of my fireplace,
 my head is layered
 my gob is layered
 geology reversed

 as paper from trees
 dead trees made coal
 graduations of image,
 thought and idea

 When my paper is gone
 the raftprayer to hold stays
 a mixture of thick and thin
 thin ideas burn easily produce heat,
 thick sustains in depth
 delights my imaginations coal


 like wood is my imagination solidified
 sunblaze trapped
 voices, stories trapped
 build a pile of imagination
 on top of my wood-raft
 stuffed into my gob
 have a nice pile in the middle.


 choose pieces too small
 air-flow round my head
 your restrict visuals
 I cannot breathe

 choose pieces too big
 don’t get enough licking heat
 from the wood to
 ignite my images

 ensure fire-front is removed
 for maximum air-flow,
 ignite the paper from underneath
 ignite heads images underneath


 in multiple places –
 get as much litlick
 quickly as possible,
 heat will feed between
 ignition points

 if you will not put your mind on me
 I’ll burn your house down
 my water in the wood
 coal makes sulphuric acid
   lick surface off your
 brick funnel

 images can sear

 your imagination needs time,
 the fire blaze
 while wood and paper left,
 this cellulose-fuel
 heats imagination -fire
 to self-sustain

 your hard images are buried deep
 pressured become harder, blacker
 used in locomotives and steam ships
 pitsweat minehacked proppedimages

 your soft images are nearer the surface
 browner nostalgic soft focus
 biscuit tin tender

 your Imagination produces smoke
 and tar
 when heated only
 when it’s “dried out”
 you get the red-hot
 carbon fire that makes
 imagination so hot.

 Recall tar melting on roads
 in sunblaze, sticks to soles
 coal tar soap photosynthesizes
 calls back its days as a plant

 I can be dangerous!

 once my fire is lit poke it gently
 to release ash and break-up images
 that may have stuck together
 through tar production
 sticky mind coagulates

 arrange cinders around
 the edge, add more images
 around fires periphery
 around minds periphery

 do not throw a bucket
 of imagination
 on my flametongue
 always put a
 bit at the edges
 or in the middle.

 the images are poked
 poke my licking
 so ash falls through the firebars
 so ash fall through the head

 lift my burning images
 ensure ash is removed
 from under the fire bars

 imagination needs time to warm up,
 don’t smother me with cold-images
 these will kill the lovely heat,
 take longer to burn up.

 pile it up around the edges,
 when it starts burning:
 poke and rake it
 into the centre gradually.

 when lit you give me a voice
 a gob and tongues
 listen to my stories
 record my voices

 divine futures from the way
 food thrown on me decays

 how virgin cakes of salt
 and spelt bake
 towards decay in heat
 tongueflicked wild
 jig of ideas

 before I ashreturn
 lose my tongues

via WordPress for Phone

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