Spontaneous Human Combustion Poem by richard ilnicki

Spontaneous human combustion, that evacuating scream,
erupts suddenly without a trace of fire;
the necessary conditions for combustion do not exist.
This metaphysical phenomenon
is a mysterious conflagration of exhausted flesh,
dry bones, warped thoughts, and an unholy spirit.
No scientific explanation supports the conclusion;
something must have happened from the inside out
which the heart cannot contain. In other words,
some silent deaf and dumb ischemic attack
without a voice is about to scream
at the top of its congested lungs, 'Infarction! '

Taken to hell by absolute zero (-459.67 degrees) ,
frigid, naked and unbearably hot,
the determinate counsel of thermogenesis
backs lonely introspection into a dry tinderbox corner.
This perturbed pyromaniac is a bulimic soul
who is incapable of keeping the taste of love down.
Exasperated, agitated and frustrated
it becomes engaged in a wave of silent protest.
Something malignant within is rebelling.

Hail, fire and brimstone don't help.
They produce unquenchable guilt,
the thirst of which can't be slaked.
The last protective nerve ending is unsheated
exposing the subconscious.
This raw familial exposure sends you through the roof
of your mouth, and you must obey the voice
inside your confused head,
a clear directive which says,
'Emerge! Touch the sky or die! '

Red sky, red flag, red herring, red badge of courage
bring you to a new high,
and your parched veins begin to smoke
with the smell of an undetected electrical fire.
The pain shifts back and forth
across the international dateline
until you have no idea what day it is.
Frustration gift-wrapped as uncertainty
takes root as bitterness
beneath the shameless tree of physical, mental, emotional
and spiritual abuse.
In this jealous garden
tentacles feretilized with anger produce the lush fruit of hatred.

Finally, after all is said and done
desperation engenders a sense of hopelessness.
You've spent your last emotional dime,
and you can only watch
psychologically motivated memories arise
like a gaggle of gestalt geese
inviting you to join them south of the border
for a taste of the drunk worm swimming in a glass.

Your hyper introspection irradiates flammable despair.
It burns your X-Ray to the Nth degree,
smokes bonfire flames of vanity and peppers the blue sky
with imploding black holes.

You are now caught red-handed,
an incendiary fire bug
who is immolating his carcinogenic self.

And vengeance is yours
until the definitive intransigence
of your meditative posture
brings you to a new high
just one degree above the highest.