Wildfire by Andrea Brady

	WILDFIRE a verse essay on obscurity and illumination
names pyrotechne tunic chronic meat alchemistry crude thrown fire in law love's fire illuminated tourist texts sources versions response	PYROTECHNE which is to say, a cleansing at the peat level in U Minh Thuong, man grove and indigo, the densities of flora which deaden radio signals exuberant life. How can this long advert get through a history in which all events are the same? By faint diffused light which remarks the steps of the travellers through no snow on the foreground and no crow-claw in ink; by the light filtered through a pint of blood to which it links. By ire and walnut- crusher leaning on the learner eye. Reviewed he had to take this stand because he was no longer covered with a skin. Do you see what I'm saying who is this one person the relic who wants to know life is getting better, depending on us in Cau Mau, Numaniyah. Some fanatical voices on the radio. They don’t know how right they are to be dispersed as a mist or a foam a text of noughts: C, P, O, H, N, the record conserved in the fulgent martian head of the child of the exposed peasant and on the helix: up five all life climbs to air. Thumbs the hand bearing its light into darkest English, of history in decay, to unlock the manufacturing process and reveal a simple thesis distilled for strife: that the edges of history, past grill and lounger, are eating inward as fire. My house its fringe of chemical light, my child will get sick as we all do. I am making us a firebowl of auger of bay, to see her is easy to see all I can I would like to call your attention ‘p here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open the doors and see all the people dipping their digits into a font of automatic fire: clothes of the damaged to be baptised in saline, tunics of the irrecuperable can melt on them, the congregation reads in the glow of the lamb ‘if you dip a finger in it ‘it burns like a candle but produces no injury. So open the texts, the source code a closely-guarded state secret punishable immediate thunder. Find what was keeping in the Bihac pocket, the fighting compartment, abandoned Andorinhas burned houses in the mountains and the mountain itself. Find ourselves in a coin war, primed to consume the burnt, the wood, the stones, the dust, lick up the water in the trench, to pay whatever it costs in broken vessels drive the point away. All things are an equal exchange for fire and fire for all things, as goods are for gold and gold for goods If that is true, if money is sterile and blood in exchange carries congenital defect, all life on fire going out and rekindling in a circuit: then destruction the rule of measure in change for moderns like me, to circum vent the law through a change of terms e.g. mark 77 mirabilis reform But to code in simple fricative repeat’s a copout you process the interminable present nude with content, as if repetition were endurance. Wildfire is tame, modified clawed broiler and combust engine made in the infants of cities though energy is natural, a fountain arcs illumination from Texas to Medes depending on the altruistic solar centre. It mewls and flashes its tongue on the trays. Fire alone can be fed, kept captive like a vestal helpmeet, lady or return it to the wild let fly from canisters a living payload to prowl the brush bury in an acreage whose future growth it claims by tender. The Persians back their kitchens on the large and bright, free fire, by which the clerical resistance can flow perpetually. Rag-headed splinters drenched in the Tiber by frenzied women. In Lebanon they were waiting for the pitch the tow, the puffed Told by the CEO to wipe the grass and young plants in the dog days, we bury our hopes in the autumn rain begins to fall, the earth takes its fire to all the inhabitants. As if the planet were a woman, living, turned against us, and the stars pin-hole cameras in a lacquer of burning bark around a tree... I have tried to make in a month what the sun accomplishes in a year as in the brass sphere, an excess, believing if in fire we are in our element then something can displace us, that the hope is in the recitation I might find not fire but thick water
	TUNIC 1. Remember I am on fire cannot be trusted. The lending librarian cut from plasticene and toffee knows the dewey decimal place where Greek myth can be pulled out of ravel. This morning a reader’s pass will get you into trouble now the government has turned bibliographer the living archive mutated into a bird. It’s no trouble, a caution and a few hours answering questions about your fantasies prove no flight risk you hop out from stone to stone on stichomythic feet. The ache comes back on renewal: you cannot live here, you belong to a different crowd you won’t save unless you pay from the gut. But the future can see underground, its eyes make their own light flash along the subway tracks where everything you’ve done blinks off like a solar-fired alarm. If the living are still here it will find and add them to the census which you’ll find filed down by the past. Inspectors rely on repeated structures to make sense of the chaos of competing forms that fall on cars and coffins, no wonder foreign dying looks so simple, slipping skirts of flesh in antique profile like the geometry of Muslim wallpaper. We go together. Rectangularise the cornered. If I tell the one about the Byzantine armies, promise not to believe that we are all human, that I saw them walking on newsprint in Fallujah? Then Of the two donors, the doctor ceded to his poisoned fetlock, forethought donated his liver and got life – in one kill the medicine and the heat which might preserve us as we wait in a nest in Tora-Bora for the samey future on which we’re trained. ‘So let the curling tendril of the fire 'from the lightning bolt be sent against me, wind in savage convulse the world the daily grind makes history and as I wait to be seen and warned off by an opened magazine, consultants blame the time on government targets blasted from the trees of the Hesperides. The heroic labourer has a right to unpaid employment benefit (laughter). The rubber tapper meek in the trees also waits and is not known to speak. Don’t force an axe against them: I’ll need to eat them later, for the tree of their fields is my life, and when I am finished burn them in envy of my self and that ash fertilises the earth is another irony. If I know the tree is not for meat, cut it back in defence. The land is there to be used, and without nerve damage there is no sound of harm. If the lake covers a gas field I suck it, and cover the green line with arum seeds. There is nothing here but transfer. They mean to burn everything, even the lungs. 2. The hope drunk in which we dress ourselves for a day labour gaming with maximum power and killer graphics taking it hard, the must-haves this autumn whinge at the prison of the veil. Secularism is another orthodoxy we can’t shake, to recognise the politics in fancy dress also buries its charge under the base though the countdown is not due to start for you or your oldest child or for the slaves you inherit after that. Dress the wound in salted water as the salted water rises: fashion turns dressing from repeat to a ‘statement’ of ‘interest’, marking the day mine one eternal need to keep out the cold. Garment of fire, washed in boiling water or sandia decon foam. Judicial molestation in orange one piece or Walmart sweatshirt made by the guest workers in Vietnam, 'seeds of war in the outfits 'we array by the full-length mirrors of Beximco and Daewoosa. In the grove of war hangs a fleece of recycled Coke bottles, boob-tubes and desert grades making out the farthest voyage from Sunrise Exports of Mumbai is inevitable, we can do no more than vote with our feet dragged over the gap to Níκη, though in the docks they tell of ears floating on the surface and a chin like a monkey’s in the wash. The consumption loop is politics, potential flash points all down the supply chains the head stepped on lights her gown before her maid knew what was happening. Everywhere she goes she makes money. Can we break the news of repetition the vulture supposed of ‘nowhere’ the target liver returning to the impact to look for any growth are given the shirt off their backs washed out by tide, released from the burden of fertility and insecticide by a little powder the tick-tock waves the motive, the distance 3. By ‘accident’ and ‘sacrifice’ we have heard how the irrational like a bunker-buster can reach the deepest dugout. But reason for penetration is a substitution also countenanced by revenge: it’s ok, it’s only a story. Come closer. The doting wife burps the Tupperware, robes the patriarch but his sacrifices overstimulate the sexual charm. She has kept too much aside for the uncertain future, and watches the body she meant to cherish turn to batter in its lining. The introversions of sacrifice that char other countries begin with this one, spent after his labours to be kept close to home. The janitorial sub-contractor rips himself to you. Our family is also known to worship the well. Our turn to nominate the victim is magic as a campaign donation gives the vultures power over reconstruction. They choose life incense the flame, the father a pillar or a blue tongue reaching towards heaven, and reap the substitute teacher held captive here in a bunker of volumes. The magician votes. The word supplies where the bodies were bungled in a sundried wrap. And though the beloved cannot be blamed, though Medea is known as the foundress of medicine in an oil-rich state, I am not complete in horror if I suppose she did feel sorry finally.
	CHRONIC ...left flesh and bone On many a flinty furlong of this land. Also, the country-side is all on fire 1. Was the god talking, or pursuing, on a journey, or asleep? The only way out a sea of flames You lot: rush yourself out of here tomorrow 2. The earliest publications were coin. Publication got the drift: ships loaded with potential, resinated drawn on currents towards the tortoise towers, helepolis, piers lapped in the dark. Propulsion by toxon and bronze spout collapsed distances formerly concrete, traducible only by wheels or machines powered by caloric energy, into nothing: two frames, couplets, inseparable by any moral force more actionable than geometry. Now in syndicated repeat the ‘brutal crackdown’ in Erbil exacted by its geocoordinates (3412N/04401E), Dohuk (3625N/04301E) these sites visible from space aflame their ground cover: nothing lives underneath, pyrotechne converts all that is solid into feed, and at Oak Ridge they make the bacteria which eats even that. Now it’s easy to reach the target, unbearably precise the nozzle turns the snout sniffing puckers: I see you there. I consume you in a burst. Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind, The Syrian runagate I trust this to? His service payeth me a sublimate Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye vases of quicklime and white lily, scented to consume the air herald of the resurrection of the ambiguous winner from Maalbek who cooked up the original, prop to the dead man of Europe – guarantees defeat of Luitprand of Cremona, surrender of the Russian idea to another empire with no life left in it either. Brand heating his own modern piss, sold by Kraft to the crowned heads for writing ‘Domini’ illuminating paper. 'how beautiful 'all our centuries can be garlic bloom integuements and pork powders and invisible ink: A good time for the industrious, until a shortage of beer and milk bottles hit the happy, the baby. After the retreat of the shamed Diodachi the weapons scattered on the highway of death were sold to finance the building of the Colossus, the pillars of Hercules, the double bars struck through a glowing S, lamented twins remembered by scorchlight on our anniversary. The peripherique manacles these victories, monuments the spoils of survival too bitter to be named for itself caress the air at the centre, whose bricks also listen to the dead. Baghdad destroyed by the naffatoun in their asbestos shirts, learning from the 30,000 lost to a sickened Byzantine parade the irrelevance of numbers. In 683 lighting the kiswah, splitting the black stone in three pieces a triad in which opposition can solidify over its middle, an axis through which enmity radiates, terms of concession, obliteration and raw nerve. Sizzling through fat and liquid, pausing finally on the bone shake-n-bake guy puts me off my pork crackling The more life a thing has, the less it can defend itself thickened with soap trying to be clean of my hair began to singe in the public lavatory 3. While researching ‘weapons for the burning of armies’ by report: 30,000 men of the Muslin navy, Kyzikos 680. 35,000 houses in Fallujah but not a one among them. From ’54 in Algeria, through Attrition in the Nile Delta. The Jordan. Durazzo. ‘Rome on her march ‘to stamp out like a little spark thy town Grozny the Seventh Crusade at Syllaeum or against the Vikings in 941 and in translation: occasions the first Arabic medical textbook in Basra the album of the poisoner above. Even the stone tomb of Moses releases what distilled like rose water in the alembic burns hotter than wood. Bombarded by naphtha arrows, mangonels and flake 'so entertaining I have to smile ablaze white-turbaned ‘the falling trunk and limbs, the crash, the muffled shriek, the groan suicide squads pumping the dead smoke and trench full of horses in Acre 1291, templars best known for defeating church policy on usury and for services to capitalism ‘They can indeed be soldiers of Christ blood for bitter wine rubbled under burning, sublimate to the medieval air. Pledge look up to Beau Seant, financiers locked in fealty to the company to their desks in floors above the impact. Gawain locked in single combat for Jerusalem: he who conquered the technology of fear ended the age of heroism leaving an instinct unemployed. Battling degraded the city resembles Chicago, its walls wailing, its night of the mount continuous limit of our decay for strauss and rose, an transitional attachment a dummy unspeakables cures by the smokes of sacrifice and longing that light the napalm that pulverises leaves. On the home front strongholds of clay and waddle and steers’ skins draped over the city walls to forestall fire: and undoubtedly the mechanization of laughter hanging upside-down from a line that circles from hell back into morning glare. In stockyard light to see as if by day the camp, our own people 4. Fragmentation set off among the fire-fighters, each piece has designs on an individual but the movement of the avant-garde plans to enrapture whole cities lends to the shade the appearance of shining. Embed Darrin Mortenson reports ‘the boom 'kicked the dust around 'the pit as they ran through the drill stern efforts to avoid cracking, came on to them like a vinegar-cask the noise the sexual like thunder spearing fire from perronels fully orchestrated to cause notional breakdown. Beards singed but not much injured for sake of being on their knees in prayer at the time sold to Louis XV in 1756, saltpetre, turpentine, tallow that carcass composition rosin, crude which may be deemed excessively indiscriminate like history into which it all disintegrates the Congreve rockets glaring down on McHenry make the top-ten forever 'Discourse to him of prodigious armaments 'Assembled to besiege his city now, 'And of the passing of a mule with gourds— antimony nights of wrath and ashes, the Greek Fire of another translation of faith ‘burnt to dust and ashes 'the centuries of the middle ages, …with their poetry 'and lack of thought, birthing the time of the public, Napoleon, and la puissance du journalisme. 'I see the genius of the modern, child of the real and ideal, 'Clearing the ground for broad humanity, the true America, heir of the past so grand, 'To build a grander future also in soft drinks, and toothpaste. 5. Anything organic can be drawn, calcined for days on the stove, from this need for gold. Hot bones. Slick from the periodical table, degreased by the Danube. A history of deception and trade secrets, the spirit of fireflies trapped in pine or growing with age and envy to a hoop the nature sits there waiting to be discovered. Then patents apply: Sweden forested with matchsticks, lights to secure the hold of ships from burning sandwiched in the enmity of elements, sealed in glass bulbs to attract fish, to illuminate the hands of clocks and sweated workers, to guide mowers by living lamps and courtesy, to represent friendship with the dark classes. Next in Denmark a fiction dies hallucinating turkey, plum puddings, and shooting stars. Marie Jankovitz, her power to eat and speak 'faded away as they had been petals of a fading flower, labour, tarnished and pointless, repeating by the dip-tanks, venerate the compo, infused in illumination under the low ceiling. Is this labour, pinks unfading perennials, tarnish its aim: by return to uncover what in the composition – that nothing turns on illumination the Delphi women were just high on ether and Princess Ida’s college full of wet matches singed their fine Linnen with the bedtime exercises, that the process, though plain, cannot say so…? Cyril. Fancy, a hundred matches – all alight! – That’s if I strike them as I hope to do! Gama. …strike their teeming brains, And not their hearts. They’re safety matches, sir, And they light only on the knowledge box – Quakers in Oldbury, free of the Test, learning by experience to legislate and use the coal, the alkali to break faith with absolute conviction. Or model Gothic on Fairfield Row, arched and turreted so completed the blight. Their emblem the ark, secure profit even by light, ‘a natural and beautiful image even 'in these days of neon and the hologram. George Fox dreamed then of infinite ocean, ‘of light 'and love, which flowed over the ocean of darkness, the light which ‘shines on in the dark, and the darkness 'has never mastered it. The stacks changed the night to concert, the birds driven by industrial choirmasters to up their piece-rate... The chocolate-maker, Darby the smelter found profit in the red glare. John Woolman declared against wars walking in the light: ‘may we look upon our treasures 'and the furniture of our houses, and the garments 'in which we array ourselves, and try whether the seeds 'of war have any nourishment in these, our possessions. The Children of Light developed reputations for honouring contracts and selling quality goods, for industrial experiment, factories like minor cities full of the remediated. Added phosgene to their job list. A kind of inner light they took to the people at Cherbourg, Hamburg, Sachon. 6. 'In other words, we may need to 'flatten Fallujah. 'to destroy it. 'to grind it, 'pulverize it 'and salt the soil, as the Romans did 'to make an example (Joseph Farah) ‘Viscous, not unlike the Gum of Cherries, 'and some others newly taken from the Tree: the contractors “debased” on a bridge in March are rich fruit gone off and strange turn cherry-bombs to stink out Pallugtha. 32 seconds to contact; the audio tells: ‘aw dude’. Hit him; hit the truck and him; the truck in the subject is part of him, violated mechanisms. You who we see and who is spoken to now a vapour, a phantom fury writes with 'a more blazing 'and pleasant flame shooting downwards through the Jolan precipitate, brings light along the trench line (if lyrics could be sewn with razors), and bites all the legs in the spider-holes, and bites the long tucked tail of smoke. Keeping the ‘house of Satan’ cruciform in chaos, tipped MDF panel on lineoleum, or floral ticking, an arm lock as if it could be wind a watch or stick up a dozing head We recharge our batteries in Dreamland, get the hygiene stuff at the PX, watch the boat races of stiff young coxes with their whole lives Egyptian cotton, from the university. A stone bridge with white lamp-posts on the island tends the lumen naturalis through the sanded night. Look at the race. Now also can we look at the dead postures of accident, their homes, their stuff looked at them also. A rubber sandal. Plates. A white surrender. The ulcerous Aleppo button. The leather casing of a face, dented like a football. Invert skin continues the body beyond the fingertips, collapsed concrete distances into nothing, now distance is nothing, the alternatives spin web- reports of illegal weapons you can almost touch them into nothing but sloppy joes. This dead girl is trying to hold your hhhhhh her palm a pilgrim into air, a vapour, a breath away. The niggers of the dunes. Salted ash from the braai does the job on the earth for my Romans, to sell at Sanctuary in Covent Garden. Eaten by dogs. viewed: 36,560 times. Eaten by dogs. viewed: 17,809 times. Person with disability: prosthetics above body. Partially eaten by dogs. viewed: 32,144 times. Old man killed with daughters; family recognised. viewed 30,411 times. Man making "Shuhada" sign: there is one God, because he knew he was about to be shot. viewed 18,135 times. No comment. viewed: 23,455 times. Man killed at home, identified. viewed 13,759 times. The spirit of violets cannot wash the floor in green or relieve blood jammed up in an eyeball: it complains, every time you piss you are pissing in its socket it is a drunkard whose thousand orifices new-modelled are the American drains
	MEAT “Although mathematically it can be shown that the human body contains enough energy stored in the form of fat and other tissues to consume it completely, in normal circumstances bodies will not sustain a flame on their own.” 1. So much fat for soap in seven cakes on a spatula, with burnt lipids or boneash making a fine organic spectacle, the composition flourishes in a sheltered spot. It is just mass. A number. Nothing special. 'If we admit, with many Learned Moderns, 'a flamma vitalis in the heart… Again again foaming in the washhouse, the bedroom where all obscurity ceases under cover the ecstatic fumbling with masks… have a letter-press invitation to witness the girls strip off and curse their indulgences (the handlers are prone to venereal excitation) as fat is especially likeable to the custom eats itself into the life of life, As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all! For see, how he takes up the after-life dressed in salt to prevent his skin reigniting the little marks he brought back, the pins, shark tooth keloids form a collar are ethnically selective Meaning the wound coils black nut purged from its catkin a lacquer shell the head is fathomless look down towards the bridge of your nose and the brain quietens its steady chatter. Ride out the monkey mind. The fullness of time is deceptive, the ignition skin just a bit more grey than usual. Restless, hallucinated contacts between meanings I can feel the structure giving way needing treatment, a liquid to massify the gaps become giddy, anxious, you get confused, convulsing, hard breathing, sweat, salivate, cramp and piss: the iris of your eye closing losing reception, body without outlet, closed, afraid of a photo, lacrimating. Bereft of greens, nothing but pain is left what can you see out there in everything? No stupid. Richness, blazing even under water. Clouds of ash on the perimeter. A biosphere. 2. All of this will be forgotten, she said, sweeping her arm across the city. All that human diversity a plate of embers, ‘with a likeness ‘burst in memory preserved in by-products of insect death. The ability to harm is limited by stupidity. From Lincke at the Golden Lion you could have caught your death in gold or silver capsules. But death slips gilded through the colon without ever sipping air. 2,200 matches cursing a live feed, tripwire around entry points for basic information on the body, the literal point of entry is small and precise in the neck for these enfolds compare skin where chicken nuggets bark and fry. In a precise manner what man is made. A wick effect leaves the foot of Mary Reeser untucked, the sequence so mysterious it makes death more curious than generic. And for the daily worker an assault on the jaw, days follow the bitter taste of sequestra eating, talking, consolation dissolve before anything nudges the radiogram. The myth of one a highlight for the big dipper drinks his way out of melancholy and stink Sanatogen tonic wine and white lightning, delayed healing troubles the practice nurse on her home visits reads a bottle of urine, or at least the domestic effects should pay for our emissions. Days after the encounter skin still flashes like a refinery seen from the express, like bargain fairy lights loose on their stolon. A firm eschar surrounded by vesiculation is the key hole in a canvas whose surface is made artistic by its destruction, as fire makes itself through destruction, wet and sticky explorations of the inner body with knife back, finding I had lost the capacity to feel his body is his answer much more than relief as I turned on my life rough dunked in the tunic salt-water. Poisoned by copper sulphate. The hands meant to help me bursting also into flame who might leave nothing but a foot in a slipper.
	ALCHEMISTRY 1. and after the recitation found that in coffee sweet with splenda I have been displaced I am a kind of sucrose, a walking salt-cellar, unexpired match bodies assembled properties with industrial uses, so we can belong to the logic of mechanized labour even as deep into this study as I am from a mass movement. All solids melt to air, dust resettles as dust, we can still be useful like the cremaines in the egg timer, or Anne King yielded back by weight, the text charged to audit each Grane and Atome of his relief. In time. Pissing to the wind we miss a target cycle: the leaves, the marrow pass through the human tube with some of their manichean light still shining, an armoury / an entrepreneur are waiting to collect our excess and feed the fire. Consumption frees energy and vapour bound with steel wool, or gas released by instant charges appropriate wherever there is water, there is life foaming with light, the eddy is vital clue to the confusion of an animal world. Space is its limit, contains its impossibility. The greens who say the future’s humanure make waste a historical tie-in, but the dream of total expenditure without redemption is an open market where we can detonate: over fields of blé, militant clouds pose another challenge for the cyanometer, the search for all possible initials driven to extinction, and thus discovers californium. With the powder dry references scatter, but we began with somewhat that belonged to the body of man… 2. For the aetiology of phosphorescence substitute bone. For lightness substitute ash. Bone, or human water, or all organic matter lain in a great heat can shine on in the dark or bring tactical darkness to conflict. At the bottom of a glazed earthenware jar closed carefully with philosophical lute there is bone, and bone belongs to ash. Bone softened in acid, its liquour treated with milk of lime, washed and dried; bone closed in a body of philosophical lute gives itself up to an instrumental ministry. If the timing is right, the know-how it can be sublimed and to encourage amplitude and reflection, thermal penetration, the advice is use more if he is distant. ‘The mass must be stirred ‘at mid-day, with care, the body protected ‘kept from the sun until it is wanted. ‘Engines smeared in the evening, ‘at sunrise all will be burnt: such recipes are magical, really pretty evocative, but primitive as you can see. The effect is wanting. Rock forms cast into wedges with the extra gypsum sold to strengthen the fields, acid dried in iron pots and flung on faces. Albright at the slaughter-houses of Galaţi the bones too noisome to ship, or the crews did not survive a furnace to feed the British industrial scene, banked in Russia, Morocco, Florida, Tennessee apatite, Caribbean Sombrero, West Indian Redonda, or Charleston; white or yellow, red, black or violet, as it darkens it becomes less dangerous to its handlers. But must still be wrapped and tanked under water, water-boarded but treated with dignity more if he is distant. As it dissolves in the same water it absorbs it is a model of antiperistasis, a pump-primed cycle bulks its efficiency, pound for pound. In principle opposites replace each other until both are spent, less dialectic than mutually-assured gavotte, leaving casualties with a bad throat: all that’s left of politics is an evacuation, and all that’s redeemed is pulp at the end of the tumble that schoolkids can use to make paper. 3. Accepting loss turns to giving. What’s the matter is hygroscopic, like honey, ethanol or glycerine, the gifts of the three sovereigns for marriage, blindness and bakery. The early chemists bashed it out essentially, their brute solutions displaced for a double order on the fireworks of nostalgia and Scott Key. Their lists magical, poetical, dependent on linseed or laurel oil. The power of obscurity to bring it all to life. Who said powder said fire The search for a purer fire recedes deep in the angles of history: wildfire, a boy’s own myth, its obscurity fastidious as its composition unknown: concocted oil, sulphur, resin, willow charcoal, sale nitro, aqua vite, and camphor the hectic business of the living day bitumen, slaked lime, collect the death certificate from the bones, charcoal, lithium, and wrap and pacify the spirit in Ethiopian wool sodium, incense, tow, paste of talc, eggwhites, gum, and salamander whose skin is our asbestos and her disease powdered aconite root, monkshood, magic beans, arsenic, hemp for hallucination, receipts for the secret of angels blister beetles, rock salt, incense, thunderbolt stone or pyrites, ground in a black mortar in the mid-day sun, the elemental found in combination mixed with resin of the black sycamore and liquid asphalt of Zakynthos to a paste indentures industrial workers and other janissaries a talcum of phosphorous pentoxide: whiskey pete bunching overhead like men o’ war, luminous, ballooned bellies ‘not wan from Asia’s fetiches with quicklime, syrupy liquid removed calcium by nitric or sulphuric acid reduced by ignition with carbon all variation is a mark on a paper, by a worker hoping for even numinous reward. // said powder // said fire And what is left to say. Those wars are over. This war a target cycle, feeds itself on water and air, and will outlast us all: for science an arrow burns perpetually in all bright rhetoric and in clouds a treachery of movers looks just elemental, dust returning through fire to its resting. In its pure state a body is clear as optical glass, refractive index like a diamond hard, beautiful and almost incapable of succumbing to mechanical pressure. But it is only ever found in combination. 4. So we await patiently the results of the inquiry, and stand far behind Kyoto, in shadow. Fierce Feavers must calcine The Body of this World: and there will be a reward at the end for those who can continue
	CRUDE This is automatic fire. This is automatic fire, a token ring each extruder talking English to themselves. The technology driven since 4 BCE by carpooled naptha ‘you know ‘their backs which are dark and evil-smelling the dark night of the well anyway we have always been like that milking the fabled white worm of Punjab stuffing the carburettor with chip fat heavy and burning for it, the marshals bowing deeply at the wells of Baku to the energy and ideals on which our Nation was founded. Counterfeitted gluttony as medical fire, oil of Persia its lifeblood rid of hope and freedom when explosions flash along the street like bunting. Used as patching, to blacken insipid inks. From it we take our English word that overspill coats the wings of seabirds and coughs their little throats up, all the shores make a circle for the broadcast. Trade goods distilled as liquid fire that runs into the thousands of syllables of a world order duped by RepRap, and runs the little heaters in poor homes. I dried my curls before the soph hop, came aspiring into the night perfumed like a pick-up; and often woke to see it creeping under the door as we lay dying, the wick gasping for its dangerous life, my rayon pyjamas flashing with static charges that blued the petrochemical pale. For which reason avoid Vaseline, which is obscene, especially for lips, and keep the window open all through winter. In oils danger-close relate to fire, which leaps upon it from anywhere as soon as it beholds it and stuns the leg, and stuns a girl in her nightgown in Haditha. Gas flown overhead into safety as the wind blows the drone away. A lob would suffice to bring the nature of this appetite in close, what fine traces it ribbons through the mezzanine, that dark wish between two fronts. On the home front a pen of sparklers writes apocrypha and recipes on the body of the state- sponsored torture artist. Fame hides her in the fragrant rich bosom of the Arabian mountains, but she flies haughty through our own skies, untaxed for the vapour which zips our joint intemperance the ariel bombers, the cargo flights that cross above the cradle of history become a sink. I love what I hate and can't stop drinking, shooing out the windows, pumping it into my lap. It fills life automatically and makes that life an odometer. You know that, it’s your mango, radio, factoid in the siphon, but we are automatic fire our reps with Nectar, and landscapes.
	THROWN FIRE You are now entering the marshes: no kite-flying beyond this point. Smeared with crows flown against the tents flies away suddenly to whatever place you wish burns up everything. Vectors born in nectar by the Nile piggyback birds make their way to New York, swimming in encephalitis. How can a wish, wishing even to destroy, transport itself. By falarica, and fire-flutes played slowly towards the target so that the bitumen melody can flicker along the fortified register. By Howitzer, in a 155 mm shell, and hand grenades, built to appeal to the hand like an American football, degenerate son of mikroi siphones. Or hurling jars. The story of ballistics is convection of spite. When nothing else will traverse the dangerous gap between owned and aspired, and evacuation still seems necessary, fire. The origin of human flight is not birds. To avoid the pent-house the Saracens shot straight up into the clouds, their darts fall back on top of them, their bodies, houses that move now only language. Kept off by tourniquet and perronel, hailed by angelic technique rocks and timber baulks, a hundred stealth taxes under labour. The caliph of Damascus with his blatant equipment, the refining explosion pulled back on credit by international inspectors is redeployed by rational actors on the north stage. Clearance of one organisation to its opposite is known as no man's land is all the difference between loyalty and hate. The whites of their eyes – pseudo-intimacies of the machines, the pocket-mark on a body infused with the differential breath of aerosols. Opposites critiqued, alarming Ktebisios’ double-acting piston, replaced horses plunging desperately into water but the logic of elemental opposition has finally reached its end. Though the danger of the instability of our weapons sometimes results in friendly fire consumption of the whole deck, we stick by our strategies, or stick like melted candles to the table. Fused like the forked legs of the animal, a structure designed chronometer recharged by shaking. Or a fuze barrette that knows the rider is in the air, or got sufficiently older, helps us to see how time’s the interval to the airburst: and we might go in yellow. Our little pointless arrow brightens as it goes over. While it shines we remain harmless. Then sinks the object in darkness. Phosphor a beacon to the resurrection men agenting the trenches, to the infantry on a slippery bank following their strafing – into bush, rock ornamental motion and heat the human signs – like would-be Roman spies from inside a smoke of Venus. And the queen, what she could see through the smoke she clears herself, hiding her gaping expectation behind the privacy glass of heroic death which neither blocks the image nor reveals it. Screened, blocked, scared, on the move at a crawl within the smoke an armoured city. Used to limit his vision, his access to his ammunition. And if I were to use that language – a mode that absorbs its screening mass from the atmosphere of commerce, politics and waste, from the family and the strangers in no one man's land to work or friendship, thinking only of themselves, that takes up its position in bright balloons could grow infinitely given a will and a hand, an output hot, white and dense – have I scored a blinder, or run blind myself in all this vapour quickly spending its burn I think I’m seeing the future? Mass extinction of smokes, relative tenacity depends on the ambient moisture, the life that can be lived even in banks of sand. Fight to hold a gap that might not even be contested. Kissing E. B. Hershberg’s plunging rod surrounded by phosphor, and by napalm like an ice-cream sandwich or an experimental poem dashed onto political density: the insert from Save the Children fragments the cloudy raiment of late-industrial processing, the gas scatters, inflamed, but as there is nothing here worth burning we are off the hook again. And left in the artist colony, attached to a hose of advantageous melancholy be sure your mouth is clear before the stolen gas rises in the siphon. So continue. For what it’s worth fighting for brass with a legendary mischief, right as rain might get beaten back or just dissolve our hopes like sugar. 15% in the charred wedge lives to fight again, the rebel army pins its hopes on the nugget of information secreted under the emperor’s skin. He is a blue torch in the last scene, when all our colonies are destroyed, and we a band of villains with some ancient fliers. I aggrandise myself among them. Belonging to me as good belongs to you in theory, blown by violent and continuous breath shadowed by the obscure precision of the typewriter, rigidly translating the spaces left open in the liber ignium of Marcus Graecus.
	IN LAW 1. The case for flying fire The case for making thunder unrestrained, it drops as a gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath, Safwan Hill, swabs the river and canal there. A new name covers it: mark there, oil displaced by kerosene is 'no great way 'but the generals love it. It has a big psychological effect a history of pity and the smell of victory flashes burning the breathed into the breather, a child at cross-purposes heading the other way in shredded lettuce, dressed sort of uh aioli. Fire plays on the mind, as if its form depends on imagining the toxic effects that breach nature's Genevan protocols, to depend on its toxicity, to cause through chemical action temporary or permanent harm humans or animals the wrong hands ablaze the humans come to an animal end in snuff shots too tough for prime time if not walking on real estate. But the stocks had already fallen anyway, from my eyes, in the extraordinary enclaves of Cuba, cremated at Rocketdyne, or donated to the kilns by Fallbrook. The potential for recombination is sublime, too hard to legislate the patent resourcefulness of medical doctors: we can always remediate their sticky ends, work through the scars in the parchment with its Leagueish will to contain fire and harm... 'designing to attack persons with fire, 'not to give light or to be luminous 'or to lighteth every man that cometh into the world, 'or to walk as children of light, to profit by that Light is everything, is the opposite of fat, is relish without coping Law promethean, expectation bound not binding. 2. Are law's best or worst meanings concealed in wood, barbed, poisoned, the points blazing with fire? My paper is bogus – no pre-nup is airtight, and its mark holds you in confusion as its proof-weight of harmlessness. The wicked speak clearly, broad-faced the court of appeals, so is obscurity a moral option now? Danger burns up the outside, and in no wind fire can sucks in and up from tenements like a stove-pipe build to the power of a hurricane to pluck pedestrians from their circuits redecorating the communal stairwells in double grey. From the echelon it is hard to see a raged city plan. So what is ‘too murderous’ to the lateral council anyway to use incendiary agents against targets requiring their use, you asked for it, I am not violative of law, the law of land warfare, we are just delegates to a different conference tongue slower than bullets. The coward strikes a bald head, and a tyrant ages flying hair with charcoal; the ambassador without portfolio sits down, says “I am thine”, links his fortunes by watered recrimination to the attaché opening up new causeways through the interior. Danger gets the crystal mark for official clarity, the truth a category of prisoners asleep, naked, spectating, broken, afflicted and grievous, in fear or flight… But for the apocalypse they give us the freedom of information act, and for 2d five sparrows: that nothing concealed will not be revealed, filmy nothings said in the darkness heard in the light, whispers in doorways proclaimed on the ridgepole. As Liam Fox’s explanation it is a brutal weapon, but we need to remember that we were talking about some pretty brutal insurgents. A sheen of bolt truth lies boldly over the details, two categories of happening, both of which make me afraid. These are the gradations of obscurity in public discourse, our work the endometrium that binds the naked surface to a dark displaced richness of fact which may or may not sustain the future. 3. Believing persecution is greater than slaughter, that it builds the organisation in the long run you’ll never make in that slip and trainers: these are people, hoping they might evolve to be more than numbers. Inmates. Waging asymmetrical war in their jumpsuits might dream of the fire they’re in as an airfield in Bagram, we just can’t know for certain what intentions in their rat hearts their sports drinks. Like they told us rules of our engagement with the dunes: feed the people poisoned rice and water for the gods; lie concealed in a hole bored into the body of an idol after eating sacramental food and setting up an altar; lie in a secret hole in a wall; lie in a hole made in the body of an idol in an underground chamber; hide fiery spies in a tunnel, or inside a secret wall; confront them at night and run down the side; loosen the fastening of a machine to fall on them; set fire to their rooms smeared with poisons and explosives, or made of lac; slay them in pleasure parks and places of recreation; get out disguised as a heretic with his retinue; get out disguised as a woman following a corpse; get carried off by spies as a corpse. Women may throw a snake, or poison, or fire or poisonous smoke over his sleeping person. Women having access to the enemy’s harem, may, when opportunities occur, do to the enemy whatever is found possible on the occasion, and then get out unknown. 4. The secrets of lightning are angels’, force and friction, so struck its shareholders anyone leaking into the marketplace a weapon is naturally private, reticence ‘a tradition of the chemical industry the compound is not an open field for those it changes. Constantine Porphyrogenitus reserves his rights 'nor red 'from Europe’s old dynastic slaughter-house is the stinking log-cabin of proprietary curiosity: phantasm of ritual illuminates mouths of cows and sheep, a new order of knowledge is here in democratic like an ethnographer violated in a Parisian abattoir. The structures of purity for meat replicate themselves even at the terminal canteen, you, there, and on the cheap flight you take to get there. 5. We consist in a fantasy of proportionality. So our architecture narrows to a single point. He may do nothing but by love's leave.
	LOVE’S FIRE 1. Smothered in bitter wine or mud, heart’s fire your moist air immo fomento alitur uberrimo an altogether different poison revised with kerosene that enlightens the closed garden where she sits. Nodding her head to the burnt heart. The lone star states air conditioned, their walled gardens irrigated with glacial ice while everyone burns our heads with the desire to need – that stinkinde flesches luve where we put the mince and the moving. This subtle liquid fire that turns Jack to meltwater, gathers in lipids, boils over tongues too obligated to speak to it. From donkey-jawed workers and plump lipped law swillers, swaying in the doorframe of history the holes in their bodies make against Angel, a fountain of spontaneous relay lights: glowing in the belly, swelling organs making visible their breakdown in the dark private places where they do embrace without consequence. I want to ask my question, or break felt into scraps the envelope in which this complex and deepening past touches its pieces, like the index corners for photoshopped families, all jumbled in the bladder sack together. ‘But’ the language slides through, dental tape caloric fire and phosphorescence, a paper wick dunked in subtle liquid looking like gum. And houses turning their faces Make a mirrored wardrobe. Make this mirrored wardrobe for the silvering. These are the halos of magic dressing, under which my body can become a torch. It’s been known to happen. Breath extends towards man, meets the fire on the tip and catches light and falls. And when held inadvisably in the trouser pocket the trousers catch on fire, scalding the walker as he crosses towards the Chandos, leaving a crease across his thigh. 2. In heavy fire some saw a living element generated in destruction, fed on carbon and fresh air, and so a character which could breach the places in which women sat separate, washing their clothes. On it, life. And life buckled within it. Distance is a communication system. Generations of advances in artillery demolish that orange and white intimacy, league and beleaguered, script technician and pasteurized re-enactors from Perth, highly energetic types that explode over water. None of which 'worldliche tribulatiuns, nane temptatiuns, 'nowther inre ne utter can sound down to a stable compound when down is cinders. Another kind of relation spurts through siphons hurled over mudflat walls, P4O10, now distance is nothing. The alternatives spin like the iPod wheel under chapped thumbs as the milk-blistered lips synch silently. To desire. To appear from nowhere, always expected. in this week’s heat slummy mummies kindle it under tank-tops, immolated virgins whip it out in cargo and traffic, stringing pills on natural diadems that light the air they spin like floss in. Judge her yourself – isn’t she insane? Fame puts her away nowhere, in Arab mountains she loads a rifle or weeps her eyes out or writes to the directorate of football, and it is waiting for death to explode from her zipper as she walks downstairs from a cookery class or watches Pop Idol pumping the crossword for a lucent meaning. Her petrarchan look downturns the bow-shaped mouth from which these so-called flaming arrows gave intoxication its prettier name. Eyes like burning casks, the only relief to smother in vinegar, piss, or damp sand, in idleness, in mourning for a past which was reprehensible: But one medium-sized nail drives out another, one desire displaced by junk food, soft hair, skin and iron. Feeding him you heap burning coals over his head.
	ILLUMINATED The difficulty is not organic, meaning you will eat through the flesh eventually and tamp down your singularity verdict in a lucky dip. Smoke facts obscurity a weapon snatched from insurgents who know where it winters, among rocks by the sunset theirs is general, not launched into a field where his presence is made known by the hidden particularity. Doddery and schematic how we decline the empire rusting, the AChE in the control centre and finally expire paranoia in a billion particles a curse makes the territorial managers legendary and no-one with any wisdom will dig there, corrugate the ceramic tooth. These are images in a poem: tooth, rust, paranoia you may insert your translation here, if the acquittals service is still taking applications, and we insure they are and know how, they have the most recent binomial manual says ‘nonidentity’ when you get to the front. That is, pound + shop, articles for everyday life whose light where am I myself, where I originate, where I die, or most transparent in the middle, where pure, unmixed in relief I make no show but carrying. You carry on. You give me the shivers. “The pure work disappears into words, text mobilized by the shock of differences; you light up in their reciprocal reflection like a virtual stream of fireworks over jewels, restoring breath to the impulse, the sentence.” As canisters surface from the north sea bed unchanged, neither salted nor strange, and nostalgia glows meekly over the Fourth. Your sentence is new and runs consecutively, you weigh it, minding the wishes for a pearl, a win, restored breath. We are put out with what we depend, but must eat first before helping oxidise the earth. Then wrap the others in a floatation cot. Art is the limit of the empirical, a hashcake is burning somewhere and a fistful of weeping magic beans. So happy that grown is combustible, the entelechy made joules for the class is not, so happily married. At the plummet we have made our representations besiege the represented and rep resenters for honour hey the task is serious: marathon irony in which the man cradling his little son is an instrument for a border critique This is a wonderful experiment, by which you can carry fire in your hand, or walk on fire, without being burned, in Australia, reattaching yourself to native sump by the action of no more than your mind. With a little double mallow, or white of egg, spare yourself any damage the petit-pois of a climate of general clinical depression little peas line up in this positive bent of your power, a sac, it’s all in the mind where decay is a recuperation the re- verse likewise. I am not enough and don’t forget it the corrosive pop of the safety match my kin will eat through the speaker’s corner of the face eventually: and the pure fire is not within, but between, space lit by the enmity and common fire of hope and envy which one object kindles for the other: the space can be pure so long as it remains empty a carrier for the payload and the charity acid that compresses the pupil a hard knot of coal in the eye the small nouns, the small resorts of the small poor, the little hole in the eye, the little hole, the smallest corners of man’s triumph is a block of coal, a plug eaten by the flammula vita. The body itself in repose the magnesium to light a single photograph: raw materials worth 25 franks if you can catch them. We have no idea how to speak clear truth, or in thick of the doctrinal 600m danger-close to take it in there and mass fires on the little rabbity things, though fleet of boot and sharp-jawed, they are susceptible to night which they illuminate with the facts embedded in their stinking fur so we can catch it seeing outward with closed yes. Light cast over our camp as if in day by reason of the great mass of fire, and the brilliance of the light it shed, the Four Moons of industry which delayed the council for centuries to split night with the criminals on the street we bought: the celebrated luminous mists seen in 1783, 1831 and 1922, the limpid forever. Now negation is so irresistible, its price indexed to the high street and the aerial though never knowingly undersold. The Destruction of Language is proportionate, and ratios of sleep and injury bound between the newsbooks of anger and relief to cause a minor ruckus on Today: but never so tightly that the circulation stops. Blooming and mating we turn on step only once into view with little yellow jewels burning on our eyebrows. This is the reward, stepping out into the innards whose inglorious spit-roast makes the mute world present outside a bereft and guilty place. In light of which the infinite review burns out wrapped in the whole, design and act, shade and radiant rides out the celestial outpouring and seeks cover underground.