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Kiss
December 3, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
Category Comics, Romance | Tags: | No Comments
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The Sister of the Sun
December 2, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
the sister of the Sun visited today
sweeping through the house
a stream of petals swirling around her
droplets of oil falling from fingers“the Sun has been most reluctant to journey” she said
adding that “when they were young they travelled everywhere together”
she was here to enlist my help
(as i’ve counselled many an astral body)(and kissed many an astral body)
i gave the standard guarantees
lies flying with angel velocity
and she left in a blister of oily light
petals n all disappearedimmediately i got the Sun on the phone
and told him to watch out for former friends urging change
the Sun chuckled at my worry
did i not know the Sun would never leave the great love it had found?i hung up the phone, reassured a little but worried more
the Sun talks of great love but so does everyone when they are in love
recent conversations flickered back to me
the Sun complaining about this and that, most worryinglyi briefly considered hiding the Sun’s keys to hinder any getaway
dreamed of a mad short-term kidnapping
plotted a Vegas wedding and a fake pregnancy if required
drew a big circle and little circle on paper surrounded by a broken hearta flash of light struck me then
for a moment i thought the Sun had come to take back Tupperware
but it was a bright idea instead
the Tupperware gets to stayimmediately i rang Joe and told him of the Sun’s sister
described curves and eyes and delicate earlobes
it was the ankle bracelet that closed the deal
and he said he’d call her tonightnever have i hoped so much for a phone conversation to go well
for laughing and flirting and whispers and connection
then the Sun’s sister can stay, tied by golden string to Joe
and we can all go out,
bright light, petals, oil and shimmering loveCategory Poetry | Tags: , Fingers, Guarantees, Whispers | No Comments
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Banker
November 3, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
you must be careful what you think
while fucking
in that slippery slide some brain cells are making links
between what you smell and how you feel
and forevermore a certain perfume will get you hard
she’s fucking your brains out and you accidentally think about banking
and then pow! there go some new links
and suddenly you love banking and you’re a fucking banker
and you never intended to be a banker but here you are banking
years pass with all the fucking adding new ideas
and some stick real well and change who you get to fuck
and one day, one day you fuck an art girl you meet at some gallery show
she is pierced and has a tattoo and fucks those who buy her art
and loves absurd things and so she decided to fuck a banker
and there, on her mattress atop another mattress (an art bed)
under a painting, in a small room made golden by her homemade lightshade
she fucks you and you think about art and creativity and letting it go
and banking slides away and the old you comes back
for a moment the old you is there
nourished by cunt, fucked into life, for a while
and then carried out into the world, out into your car
and you see yourself, your suit, your haircut, your fucking banker house
your fucking banker wife, your fucking banker children
yourfuckingbankerfriends, yourfuckingbankerlife
FUCK
so what i’m saying is
it’s probably not a good idea to think about banking
if you’re fucking
unless you want to be a banker
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Spice
October 21, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
i was at work talking words
some pointless lunch conversation
and then i was at home
heart thudding
sweating
holding a metal garden spike in my hand
feet aching
i’d been running
my shirt was torn
blood on my knuckles
dirt under my fingertips
i thought
thank you!
psychotic break
i’ll take it!
i need something
to spice
up
the days
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Combust
October 21, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
she awoke and found her husband turned to ash
his form crumbled as she pulled back the sheet
but he was mostly perfect, fine lines and hair and patterned pyjamas
transcribed in shades of grey and white
the sheets were slightly crisp
signs of some intense heat
she hadn’t felt a thing
but then
for years in bed
with him
she hadn’t felt a thing
she looked at ash face
and saw it peaceful
mouth half-open
probably snoring when it happened
she was a little delighted
and that delight came
with a little sorrow
she was delighted he had surprised her
for the first time in years
she was sorry he had to combust
to do it
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New girl
August 10, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
Oh you, my dead end
My favourite cul de sac
Turning tired, drinks and music
Hey, my queen size bed!
Category Poetry | Tags: | No Comments
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At question
August 10, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
It was quite curious for Dad to say, hey
I don’t believe in you
Not that he doesn’t support nor trust
But that my very existence is at question
Well clearly I’m here I said but nope
Comeback: it’s all hallucination
A tumour perhaps, brain injury dementia
I briefly considered a smack in the mouth
Perhaps breaking his shit
Decided I couldn’t be fucked
Turned to the unicorn and said let’s go
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Emma
July 28, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson
Razor loves me he love me he love he love me long time I write in curly blue letters with the pen I stole today, in the book I stole today.
A moment of clarity at the shop: the more kids you have the fatter you get. I told Tracey and she cracked up and then we kept making faces at each other each time a heifer herded through a guzzle of children.
School holidays finishing soon and new year starting and the parents swarm through trying to get the next generation of diet doctors and home facial specialists and coffee monkeys and vacant drones and bullies and sluts and harpies and witches and wizards interested and invested in paper and folders and pens and erasers. The pre-school kids stumble around, mostly vacant and generally unaware what they are doing here. Something is going on and it apparently is exciting and will be fun but then they turn up in a place with paper and they learn their first lesson: adults lie.
The older kids slump around, contributing only when their mom cracks and threatens to get the ugliest books and binders we sell (aisle 2, a vinyl-plastic the colour of unwashed everything). Some of the kids are deep into the generational warfare and so they shrug and fire off another don’t-care missile, secure in their dominion over mom and dad. They know the only rule that matters: the winner is the one who cares the least.
Who cares the least out of us?
Tracey is like me: no kids, no mortgage, no car and no debt. No debt because no bank will open the door to flakes who have had more jobs at 22 than they have fingers and toes. Her mom and dad give her cash every now and then and so she could probably leave this job. She cares less than me.
Shirt stain isn’t like me: no kids, no mortgage, has a car that looks like it was designed for a bubble or Pac Man to drive, and maybe debt. I have no idea if he has debt because I let his words and ideas flow through me down an ignorant pipe that is manned by no one. Every time he shuffles over, jiggling in that early thirties way that equals heart attack by fifty-five, I click off the mental recording gear and turn into a mirror. He is a workaholic who argues with his fiancé about staying at work. How he got her we can’t determine. No one has ever met her and there are rumours she is just a paid service that calls the office to make it look like he has human parts. He cares less than me.
Five assorted stock-kids who drift and change every few months when they get sick of Stain “cracking down” on paperclip shelf order or sugar control or discover he puts the work clock forward in the morning and then back after lunch to squeeze another ten minutes out of everyone unpaid. They care less than me.
Kara the payroll troll, Queen of the Time Cards, Watcher of the Bathroom Breaks, Grand High Whatever of Pointless Rules, sitting in her little cave, pulling levers, pressing buttons, convinced she is keeping the world running but unaware the levers connect to nothing; the buttons are dead. She is married and made hard by the pressure of children I guess. Or she could have been that way her entire life. I wonder sometimes if she too has a moment of clarity and the young Kara wakes up to glimpse the new world. Obsessed and possessed and distressed and -essed in every way … she cares less than me.
Razor razor razor out right now with half my pay looking for something to brighten the day, hip hip hooray, ok? It’s Poetry – oh Noetry and I can’t visit the website that comes from because we sold the laptop two week ago. I circle his name again with love hearts and at the same time decide I care the most at work because without work I wouldn’t have the money and without the money Razor would have to steal more and then he might get caught and then I’d never see him again.
So I care the most. More than Razor, more than Stain, more than Kara, more than stock-kids, more than Tracey. More than – Razor is back.
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Fragment slice speck part moment bit – words arranged with punctuation.
Category Novels | Tags: | No Comments