Logarithmic Fire

/ Poetry /

Do not ask me why the whole world is trying to crawl into your bellybutton.

I have a huge number of operators digging for my bottle-hole.

Let’s agree on one thing: everybody for himself. That’s fair.

And keep in mind—explosives are still an essential part of human life.

It takes passion and willpower to accept this truth: there will be no better life

unless you put your faith in fairy tales, in something soft and glowing—

an illusion already broken by the time you touch it.

The rest is hunger; the rest is survival math.

What you press against your skin today may belong to another guardian tomorrow.

Enjoy its blast, its fracture, in the instant of logarithmic fire.

Open your ironing board. Get ready to iron.

Isn’t this what you always wanted?

Isn’t this what you kept aching for?

Antigraduate your gravity, pretty boy.

Take the upside-down stance until the obelisks drift in—

black and white pillars sliding from the horizon,

each one heavier than truth, sharper than silence.

And when they reach you—don’t beg, don’t bow.

Burn with them. That’s the only contract left,

written in silence louder than fire.