Burning the Encyclopedia

It’s cold in here.

I want to dance,

Bare it all.

I want to dance round the pagan fire of encyclopedic knowledge.

So, I hack at the trees,

Swinging from their branches,

Pulling their bows down to the earth,

Sweeping away the snow with their wild pines,

I pine for you.

It’s cold in here.

I want to dance,

Bare it all.

I tear the pages from the Britannica

And crumple them into little balls and toss them in to land midst the logs.

I strike the match,

Inhale the sulphur and it stings the insides of my nostrils.

I burn the French Congo.

I Burn the Grand Teton Mountains

I break down barriers of Geopolitik

Set fire to the waters of the Great Barrier Reef

It all goes up in flame.

Thick black smoke fills my lungs as the thousands of words and symbols and people and places all made possible by Mr. Gutenberg ignite, curl in on themselves, burst into a crackling flame and disintegrate into nothingness.  Johan, himself, is not spared.

 I burn habeas corpus and the willing of your body to mine.

I burn Halcyon and hope for days of peace and tranquility to be granted by the Gods.



The embers of the charred pages burn, but the wood doesn’t catch fire no matter how much I poke and prod. No matter how I feed the cravings the heat of the burning pages is always quick and intense, yet the fire still dies. The kinetic ashes settle back into potential waiting patiently to bring forth a new light.

I strike another match and swallow the flame.

I am the furnace that will stoke the scorched ashes into a passionate blazing inferno.

Slowly, I inhale

The fire burns more brilliantly


Ever more so.

It’s warm in here,

I still want to dance,

Bare it all




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