You look hot. Like the tip of a burning joint.
My fingers singe when I lay them upon your skin. But I am glad they didn’t when I lay four of them upon your forehead, looking for traces of a fever.
No it wasn’t burning. You were fine. I was glad.
Each finger is a flame. Wings scorched – the mynah flees the ancient Lankan flames which still licks the skies. It sits on a mangled branch of the seething trunk. The mynah watches its own pyre in its own eyes.
They mistook bloody bronze for gold. I mistook gold for bloody bronze.
“It is intentions, it is fucking intentions I tell ya.”
It is intention that gets it all wrong. Intention catches hold of life the wrong way. No intention – whether good or bad holds any water. As soon as intention creeps in – take my word – consider life dead.
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