THE MULTICURSAL AXE : ROOM 1 : 20160815
The room is a flame. Suddenly everything is light.
The building - is it a house? is it a shelter? - groans and in its ashen speaking you can almost hear words, the long slow narrative of time expelled in these ember moments of fear.
The room is a flame. It is testament to exit, incitement to leave. A hardier typo might be "to exist." A stronger typo might be "to lead." The accurate type is "aflame." The room is on fire.
You exist. You are a flame. You're not really a flame. You might be a candle. You drip. There is salt on the crusted swollen upper lip, and the bright taste of pennies, and the coil of rope against the rub raw red wounds of wrists. You are fat to bursting with the heat, like a ball of cheese sweating butterfat. You are a chain of proteins threatening to crisp. You are fowl, legs tied, wings bound, skin threatening to singe pores.
The chair is a pyre. Or it will be. There's no more room for metaphor, for allegory, for the white hot sizzle of poetry.
What do you do?
DEADLINE 20160821 : INDEX