Charles J. March III

 

 

A Human Furnace

 

I have an intense sweating

sickness that cannot be

quenched

from an unmitigated

mind that’s incessantly

monkey

wrenched.

It causes my

nervous

stomach to fill with a

noxious natural gas,

which makes me want to legally

euthanize myself in a

chamber of glass.

Maybe that would free

me from the

masonry.

I probably

deserve it, for

all of the

illegal things I’ve

done.

Thankfully, my friend’s

Mom is a

member of the Jewish

World Watch.

She watches over me, and

makes sure my

fires don’t permanently singe my synapses.

But I guess my

combusting brains give me the energy to grab the reins.

Although, they once

put my soma in a

catatonic coma, and left my surface with a catalytic sheen—so I

torched up my blast furnace with refined coke, and as a

chemically reacted result—the supervening detoxifying heat became too extreme.

I could no longer plan on using

a white, Chinese fan.

My pressure cooker had

reached a boiling point, and became more than a wet dream,

even

though my beehive horno

hearth hole was covered with muddy,

root chakra

earth.

I was white hot from

the white guilt, and

thought I

couldn’t get a

queen bee because my face was

covered with

stings.

So I took up apitherapy and

started smoking beeswax, until I was smoked out of my brooding nest for being such a pest.

I started to develop a colony collapse disorder, and thought I was

destined to drone alone

forever.

This was especially the

case when a big black bear needed a taste.

So I slogged as a

blacksmith, while

listening to

The Smiths to rework the

bloody iron of my

black soul.

I went through a

black pickling

process, and became an

uptight tinman while in the

slitting mills, which made me want to cut my wrists, and nail myself to a

cross in

Black County.

Little by little, the wood-fire began to

take its

toll.

I became disillusioned by seeing all of the black ovens slaving over the travails of the dirty, carbonized plant matter toils, while the white ovens got their easy heat transfers from trusty moils, even though they deserved coal for Christmas.

So I came to the

collusion to get lost in the

languor of White

Russian ovens.

I perambulated down a

labyrinth of

mystically smoky

passageways, but wound up

tarrying down there and becoming

full of hot air.

But heat and cream rise to the top,

so this hot cream traveled up the corrosive,

torridly duct taped (but little

used) pipes, to the

firebox that was

unfortunately

blocked by a

damper door that was put there to

stop the natural draft that

over chilled my flues

with sweet smelting blues.

This left me with a

lack of heat exchange, but even when I would...

I’d just wind up with burning

wood.

Akin to a vacuum kiln, this

created a deep, parabolic

depression from all of the

constant stimuli that

incessantly swirled around me in a centrifugal-like force, so I

sought out to be an inexpensive, low-tech solar oven in order to

save myself and the environment.

I realized that the only

way to come out of my dark ages and adjust the gravity of my situation

was to bring about

balance in my

waning ways

by maneuvering my

effulgence to catch the sun’s

declining rays.

So I moved to the Valley of the Sun,

but not even the Prescott Hotshots could put me out.

Perhaps one day I’ll

rise from the flames like a

Phoenix.

My iron heart couldn’t

get enough blood,

so I signed up to be a

colloquial doc

with the devil dogs

who were forged in

hammer dropping fires.

I had to go through

formidable foundries to get

molded into shape, and their

crucible almost

melted my metal, but they nevertheless wound up casting me out into their cadences after a lot of moldy air

conditioning.

Even though I was a

major appliance- -I couldn’t quite apply myself to their Majors, because

deep down, I knew my ticker was too radiantly yellow, so I

relinquished my reenlistment, and didn’t

languish through another tour as

their sleeping bag bedfellow.  

After that, I just kept rolling

while my metal was still forming.

I was dualistically warm and cold, depending on the

geographical and

geometrical properties, which

resulted in varying degrees of

relaxation based on my

internal patterns of stress and compression.

I could of had a

crown in my

workpiece, but I guess I

was never meant to be

perfectly flat.

I did, however, go through a

period of surface

remediation, and

was able to overcome my

deflection by being exposed to

different loads.

I suppose it can be

said that I’m an asymmetrical

edge wave,

especially since

driving a

galvanized

vessel through an

electrical arc furnace of

oceanic freedom.

After many

recidivistic heat treatments, I was

able to dispel the dross, and take off the proverbial barbershop

cape that I had

crusaded against for so long, due to the insulating and

suffocating heat

under its noose-like

collar.

My French Bulldog could

finally

rest her suckling sow-like

pig iron

ponce

next to mine, and

for a

moment—we were

free

from the

conflagration.

Sometimes I

regret my hot air

rhetoric, but I

refuse to be a

generic, Dutch oven

blanket that’s

pulled over my eyes while a

potash casserole slowly

suppurates in your stomach.

I suspect I’m just an old soul,

alien-like

octopus furnace

who’s trying to

vent the lead

out of my head.

Hopefully one day when I’m

dead, I’ll be

cremated upon a

magnificent funeral pyre,

instead of

eternally

resting in a

hellacious

hellfire.

 

 

Charles J. March III © 2020