Killing Art





The red cylinder is solid in my hands
Smooth albeit a few scratches
Slightly cool metal turning warm
To the touch
The warning stickers
Paintings themselves
Telling of danger
In bold yellow and black graphics.

I turn the knob clockwise
And a radiator hiss
Erupts from the tip of the nozzle
As I work the striker
Sending small white sparks
Into the basement smell of the gas.

Ignition.

A peacock blue flame
Narrow and precise
Like the point of a pencil
The tip of a sable brush
The sharp end of a knife.

Oh
Little red killing machine.

What beauty shall we
Bring forth
On a night such as this?