Spontaneous Combustion

Leamington Spa, 1983.

One minute,

he was sat in front of the TV

snoozing fitfully,

a silver stankard

of Double Diamond

at his leather patch elbow,

completely oblivious

to Ray Reardon rolling up

behind the brown.

The next minute

there was nothing there

apart from a pair

of smouldering slippers

on the Algerian leather pouf,

his Planters nuts scattered

to the four corners.

No naked flame,

no health and safety nightmare

appeared to have occurred there.

No spilt lighter fluid or

carelessly tossed cigarette.

It's not like he was partial

to flouncing around the town

with The Crazy World of Arthur Brown

and his blazing helmet

Or hanging with his homie Pope Innocent,

screaming in perpetual torment

after chucking down a bucket

of Bombay Bad Boys,

chased along the red lane

by a tray of Flaming Sambucas.

What really went on there?

Who knows? Who can say?

Is it better to burn out

like a Bryant & May

than go like a ghost

and slowly fade away?

B.R. 10.09.2022

Arthur Wilton Brown.
Cautioned by countless Fire Safety Officers but still casting his delightfully fiery spell since 1967.