Xaphan

Can't blame a guy for trying
to blowtorch the pearly gates,
melt down St. Peter's
fillings & sell them on the
deep web. If you're
going to douse yourself
in gasoline, might as well
bring the bellows so the whole
world burns with you. His
Zippo's engraved with his
bellows & hell was just
a great heap of sticks before
Xaphan arrived.  Cooks your
cocktail, fries your soul
like a druggie egg.  Pulls
the alarm at vespers.
Laughter crackles, breath
singes, brimstone cologne.
Long live the pan that hovers above
his smoldering pate, poached
& plated, your very world,
on flames, a freight train
running through the middle
of the reeking pit.