UNTITLED
there has been an infraction.
reality has gone completely infra-red.
no one knows how it happened.
all visible light was splitting itself into the colors we know
when suddenly,
only one color remained,
& it was a new one for us.
hot & invisible,
we twirl about our new ancient world.
everything old seems so bright & fresh.
we’re drowning in a syrupy version of our waking state.
three children pick on a fourth for another first time.
did time take notice of our shift in spectrum?
is it behaving appropriately?
has anyone noticed we’ve left?
was there anyone left behind to wonder?
did we grow out of a sprout,
a seeding of parallel time?
is it possible for us to find
a way out of this splinter
we broke out on?
we haven’t lost our unbroken consciousness.
we still remember what happened, & when.
we remember all of the numbers.
so now we let this play out for a while
& see what the rest of the world is thinking.
it’s only brand new & so still quite unnerving to many.
we’ll be patient & see how it goes,
just like we were doing before,
when the world flashed in so many familiar colors.
UNTITLED
this thing developed rapidly,
exerted itself where it had no business before,
growing like a nectarine,
engorged,
puffy,
full of it all.
it breached the tip of my skin.
it made a lump on the landscape of my hand.
when it bursts,
it might spread all the knowledge
of countless
invalidations in the face of imminent despair.
UNTITLED
blazed bright in greens & yellows & stung onto my eyeballs,
spreading like a contagion out from the center,
a growing nervous system of sick cells,
domination under every watch,
skewered gloriousness under a blanket of electric reverie,
wormishly making out w/ the truth of affairs,
clapping bricks like cymbals in our notorious instigation.
I’m taken aback by its brilliance,
gasping for desperate balance & the joy of melancholy gratitude.
discs jump plainly from area to area,
displaying their restless endeavor towards the perfect gust of wind.
they would ride it like surfers,
matching each unreal crest & crash
w/ a timid recollection
& a simmering lust.
these fires crawl down in holes.
my dead batteries suppose an arrival of unintended consequence.
I am whiplashed by the tireless gorgeousness of these raging neon dreams.
I spasm in luxury while a coherent miracle plots my tremendous orientation.
I sing the magic words as a bluegrass song,
blessing myself & my sad language as the melody evaporates into a migration of locusts,
scouring the valley.
UNTITLED
brown vines can grow on silver fences
& make them brown fences.
the sun tries to char them w/ the heat,
but a mealy, white cell set achieves its rowdy tell-all
& unzips a line in america’s horseshoe.
my butane conspiracy halts
dead in the face of an almighty terror.
we growl at each other
thru the sprays of sand & snow.
pumpernickel favorites drive their chariots up & down the speedway
while the monster trucks are playing tag in the jungle.
after all, I’m just a greasy mop,
ink-stained & worn to threads.
it serves me right that someone dipped my head
into chlorine & bleach, & singed my brains electric.
PLEASE DON’T BARKING
please don’t barking,
now my yip sun is startled untimely,
my warm river dangerously.
it’s not helpful by easing.
what a loud permutation
takes easy like starlight,
an incensed, dirty rite of time.
some ancient terrible song
makes noisy in its sideways.
rapt & juggling,
we take turns in our ethers,
the backs of feeble I’m.
UNTITLED
“there’s no reason around it!”
some ineffable radio
calls to blooming sunbathers
from a destiny tombstone.
SQUEAL MY SODA
crop my crater
bomb my belly
feed my funhouse
mirror my migraine
medicate my mantra
chant my chamber
lock my lookout
spy my secret
tell my tumor
grow my grunts
squeal my soda
drink my destiny
future my formula
mix my melancholy
ruin my rodeo
lasso my longevity
cut short my cattails
sprout my sideburns
trim my trailhead
chime my chastity
purify my punctuation
dot my disclaimer
confess my contusions
bruise my barriers
block my blame
accuse my accomplice
join my jury
convict my conscience
think my therapy
listen to my liberties
release my roses
bloom my butterflies
pollinate my periphery
isolate my interior
excavate my embryo
fertilize my fabulous
makeover my masquerade
identify my industry
mass-produce my muffler
drive my delirium
soothe my sympathy
& bandage my bottle-rockets,
ignite my interiority
& leave my living alone in there.
UNTITLED
this adapter needs a puddle
like vomit or something
where it can decline in.
small jack-bandits insist
on a fistful of breadcrumbs
& impeccable heather.
your don’ts,
your gonnas,
existing just in a spoonful or rope coil.
ten dangerous degrees to the separation,
a train slides by on ice.
I’m a dismembered radio,
silently counting timetables in the rain.
alert! to its white stone pebbles,
indications of wealthy allegiance & grim fortune.
I’m indebted to a factor, its benign strangeness.
I’m rising in me like a grain elevator,
shielded from the berry jets.
let’s pull my shoestring gut like it’s a pink maroon,
smiling sideways like a ranging flock of oysters.
Colin Ferguson 