Bathing in Alexandria’s flames

The editor
asked if I had COVID.  
 
He said I was flushed.  
My eyes fevered.  
I was walking around  
in a daze,  
and I should take my  
skank ass home if  
I’m going to pollute the  
air with that shit.  
 
I sat on his desk in a short skirt  
and told him I was working on a  
story,  
and he should  
stop polluting the gene pool  
with his tiny-dick DNA.  
 
I was working on a story.  
 
I was working on  
The Library of Alexandria,  
the largest research facility  
of the ancient world,  
the bibliophiles’ permanent wet dream.  
The library was part of a  
massive dedication  
to the  
muses.  
 
The common belief was that  
the world lost  
The Library of Alexandria  
with a single candle,  
a catastrophic event  
that destroyed  
everything there.  
 
Academic assholes know  
there wasn’t actually a fire;  
the world just got dumber.  
 
But I was thinking about  
libraries and candles  
when I was supposed be  
thinking about stupid shit  
like taxes or bee extinction  
and then  
I was thinking about  
(you)  
muses.    
 
About my library.  
 
I thought it was a finished collection,  
and I bled so much  
madness into  
every piece  
that I retired  
when it was done.    
 
And you,         
You came oozing innovation  
like a bead of precum from a  
semi-hard dick  
and tied  
me to a chair made of  
want.  
 
You came fisting yourself  
in one hand,  
flicking a zippo in the other  
around all this paper...  
 
I realized inspiration sounded  
exactly the way the  
click  
in the back of my throat sounded  
when I tried to swallow  
in the convection  
you cause just walking  
in the door.    
 
Future academic  
assholes will nod  
and postulate,  
that yes  
a lone candle  
(your lips)  
burned up the  
side of my leg,  
leaving nothing but  
ashes as the  
proof.  
 
They will concur  
you are  
absolute  
destruction.