The Ashman Cometh

The Ashman Cometh short poem

Photo by mikecogh

Stovepipe tall and thin,
all the shades of gray.
Eyes so new you might
think he’d sprung from
a black snake firework.
In tumescent jack-in-the-box,
sprung toward the clouds.
Likely to fall over yet,
somehow both erect.
And able to walk, to dance,
jostling the rush hour crowd.
Never a beggar, a god
born of the 21st century
flicking chits of ash,
luxuriating great grouts,
of cigarette smoke.
Oily billows from black lips,
if only he’d make a clamorous
sound ,he could be
a locomotive but this
smudge pot is silent.
Even his footsteps light.
Its only when he opens
his mouth to expose,
his innards glowing dragon,
orange like a young tree,
split by a lightning strike,
greenwood set alight.
Dying from the inside out,
you realize he can’t help it.
Any more than a volcano,
shaking the ground in warning,
before it abruptly poisons,
the atmosphere around him.

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GlenDodge

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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1 Comment on "The Ashman Cometh"

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Iman
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A beautiful play of words creating such a beautiful yet dangerous scene. Pure Magic of poetry!

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