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Kira Ferguson May 2015
Carry on, my child
Though your feet are ******
And your hair matted
Trudge forward...
Through mud, through fire
Let your flesh burn and peel
Allow agony to suckle at the breast of your will

When you breathe, your lungs will ache
When you walk, your legs will shake
You will hobble to the feet of comfort and collapse...
Only to be turned away

My dear child, you are drunk and foolish
I have nothing to offer you but a shallow grave
Haven't you known this is only a game?
A pawn is a pawn, just the same
Kira Ferguson Feb 2015
I've spent some time in daydreams
Surrounded by lavish things
Materials that bling bling
But they won't make me queen.
Don's bottled stars
Won't take me far from the reasons why I need the drink.
A better whiskey, a finer wine
Won't free me from my minds confines.
When sober slips in through shadows black
And opens curtains to blinding light,
My truest self, the honest fact
Runs trembling away in fright
Replace diamonds, then, with ice cubes
And let my wealth melt away
I've only obtained nothing
For it was all empty anyway.
And when I greet the crashing shores
Of the Pacific at my best,
I'll be standing there in the ****
Not dreaming of the flesh
  Jul 2014 Kira Ferguson
Sylvia Plath
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
Kira Ferguson Jul 2014
The whispers of a thousand ladybugs
Caught in a strand of sunbeam
Became slurred
One more White Russian
Sloshed down and stirred
In the belly of that brilliant star
Gave birth to sweet summer
The seventh month, day five
Seemed silent in comparison to the night before
Where blasts became a long drone
And drowned out that roaring train
Which would (on any other night)
Rattle the blinds of this small home
We see that it is soon to be emptied
And even more quickly, after,
To be full once more
We are at the crossroads
Of interspace and matter
But those thousand tiny wings
Kick up dust off our old albums and memory boxes
And leave them hanging there
Suspended in threads of light
Such big eyes we have
All the better to dream with
Sleepwalkers, forevermore
Kira Ferguson Jul 2014
She walks with purpose
Strides like roots,
Her naked toes break even pavement
To turn the gears at the deepest core
In her favor

She runs the wheel
Collecting coins and gold stars
Which she blows coastal with a mighty gust
Morphing trophies into sea spray

Her neurons work as spindles
Making into thread
The fibers of daydreams
And she weaves it to webs daily
Despite the destruction that comes before dawn

She is creation
She is the West Wind
Bringing bouts of turbulent change and
Who knows but her?
Kira Ferguson Jun 2014
I juiced the oranges
That grew from my limbs
And poked holes to drain sap from my shins
With needles and pins

You suckled from the fruit
Forbidden, it be
And leached life from this succulent tree
No scrapes on your knees

Tangled vines sprouted up
Took hold on my throat
And my small branches, one by one broke
Along with my hope

Do not follow me, dear
Into these woods, thick
The darkness will creep up on you quick
It's only a trick
6, 5, 9, 5
Kira Ferguson Jun 2014
A couple becomes comfy...comatose
Their coffins carved carefully
At the cost of the cuticles
That cut the cloth concealing the cause of calumny.
Cut with claws
Claus? Santa has no clue
But the paws with the claws came from Cope,
The coyote cub who clubbed with truth.

Palms clasped on Aphrodite's coffee cup
Caffrodite, cups
Cups that carry potential - kinetic, energy,
...Chaos conceived carelessly
A ****** tear

This is the C-Section
No concern...know care
Because you are capable

But soon the caffeine kicks in,
And the common carotid is cooked
Compare now, casualties to cows...
Not so different
Still, the crowd plays casual

So dream of a connection concentrate in a container
And swig
Constrict the fists and relax
To be carried off into the cosmos
Consumed by clouds of gas...

Below are the circus clowns
Coughing, conceiving, creating.
Is it a crime? To be cut off from contemplation?
Akin to Galileo, craniums will roll
While eyes stay still completely

A quiet kiss to the clavicle of our collective cast
Soothes the commotion to
This clamoring performance
A hush to this cacophony
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