Combustible
Sitting there at the fire,
I am illuminated.
And the faux façade of face
melts away.
That which I define as self
becomes liquid;
the play of light across bone,
viscera and epidermis
flows fluid with each undulating flame.
My face becomes a miasmic mantle of
molten me.

Ever changing,
the visage you behold is quite simply
that of a man on fire.
Not your normal narcotic.
No opiate derivative courses through these veins.
That pyro-technique you see
reflected amidst iridescent pupils
originates from within;
not from that conflagrant mass of
timber now tinder,
burning away some three feet distant.

My skin glows incandescent yet
does not sear;
does not char.


Edging my hand towards that which defines me,
there comes a moment where pleasure
transitions to pain,
and there,
just at that threshold point,
a certain sense of sanity begins to wane.

Just which direction equals pain?
Which equates to pleasure?
Yes, it’s time to make a choice.
To be decisive.
To move quickly.

And as I cast my eyes around to
all those other reflective pupils,
I bring myself to ask,
“Would you not have me illuminate you?”

And all of you
who always thought I should have been
committed…
What am I here right now if not
totally?

Look away if you must but
from this moment forth,
I
shall forever be
burned to retina.

©06 Jack Hubbell