the poetry that matters

Colin Fulton

Colin Fulton attends the University of Victoria, where he's nearly completed a double major in Creative Writing and Environmental Studies with an additional minor in Philosophy. He grew up in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, but usually spends his summers picking fruit in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia. Whenever Colin's not attending classes or picking fruit, he publishes essay-length reviews of books new and old on his blog. (http://souverianreads.wordpress.com/)


The Arduous Putz of Appearance

(Mutter. Bulk.)
(Torrid. Orbit.) (Optic. Siphon.)
Methodically these angles strike and lick.
New yellow cars take up space in a cold teal garage.
Their owner rides his shattered horse instead,
lackadaisically wrapping a sock around a stick
until tar drips and gets lit. Now he’s laughing his way
through velour curtains into a pre-modern bog.
One great big asymmetrically white bedroom after another embarks upon re-financing.
Sons wander farther than fathers from exits, but to use a civilized metaphor:
the lips pronounce factory floors and tongues are blank ballots.
Listen, the nearest trumpet was found in an attic.
Next, styrofoam will tear through his milk.
The marketing that can be said is not the true marketing.
What’s good is a childhood of soda; what’s good is calcium
propped up into a worldly stance; what’s good is dung.
“It took hours to wake down. I can’t explain the hot stripe of cum behind my knee, that wet latch.”
Centuries later, his bald descendents thrive, designing platinum ladders to bury under a peat hill.
Today they barely snap through the lintel of meaty ground, and almost feel a horrible capacity.
Too many ladders jostle down there. Up there, not enough birth nebulae to iron out the death.
It can be inferred that a triad of thinkers can be held responsible for this, in an ideological sense:
one’s penultimate crossword floats, in Cyrillic, in a clawfoot tub barely held tight by its resin,
one sees spiritual itineraries scrawled across rows of trashcans by prophetic wolverines —
they read ‘transcend’ in longhand — and one’s metabolism blinks with hungry forgetting.
With a hexagonal tool that is not stone
his naked paragon version carves
forests of blue oak trees from slabs
of imitation heartwood, to sell like
trinkets. In his imagination
he is simple.
“My friend and I found ourselves feet apart on a frozen river when he held me and told me
we shouldn’t meet, and peripheries kept gesturing. We were in agreement
until we noticed no river stuck below us. He and I saw clear ice, then haybales, then lamps.”
“You know what they say. Sometimes an exhaust pipe won’t choke
because a god has roped up the whole vehicle for its parts to be hauled and souled.”
Now. Look what’s been done. He looks about as far away from himself
as most citizens can stand away from operational microwaves comfortably.
He thinks the opposite of eugenics must be graffiti, and hums the theme of ego death
whilst tagging his insignia on corners of flattest suburbia under gray broadening daylight.
Unable to understand the citizenry (√); unaware the nozzle unloads only aerosol (   ).
Claim this era’s an island or a thief.
Find it enjoyable at the very least,
try to employ it, dread what’s coming.
Look how he wears his skinned dog’s skin.
He passes its ulna through his long-dead canoe
as if the cracked splashboard were loose flame
because he means to gain enough strength to make
things stop loving him, calling him, backwards in the dark.
What roosts gets marooned — but this isn’t a rescue, it’s a proof.
And of course when considering candidates
for the first of many animal domestications
his species meticulously sought out the most placid
of dietary generalists, highly social and gregarious.
These big sad things always missing someone
aren’t memorable when you wake up in them:
what is, airports?
My sweet
you see?



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