Petrol Breath

Had the nozzle in fuel tank
to sink a few timezones.
Would take a little time so
lit a cigarette up.

Plastic melted onto scalp,
gashes round the elbows,
I asked the little store ma'am
where the vaseline was.

She didn't say, but was staring at me in a way that guaranteed we had communicated.
This was when I began believing in telepathy, as the explosion had blown my lips clear off.

"Where's the damn vaseline,
little gas station store ma'am?"
My pants were lighting on fire,
my nipples dripping petrol on it.

If you saw the CCTV footage of that afternoon, you'd see my apparition jogging
haphazardly around the chips and candy aisle, searching wildly for any sign of pharmaceuticals or skin care.

She reached under the register
pulled out her eight-gauge.
Pointed at me, then pulled,
blowing my brains out.

Sticky gobs of burning napalm
with tiny splinters of my skull
flew as my body did a little dance,
all over the back wall.

Suddenly the store was all explosions. Little ma'am ran out, screaming.
A jar of vaseline rolled uselessly to my foot, and from above, a stray tic-tac landed into my torn open throat.

It didn't help much with the petrol breath.