Author Archives: cottonbombs

About cottonbombs

Peter Fulton is a writer with a love for every style from comedy to haiku. This site will be a showcase of my passion for the written word, though if you want to bring it to life, I recommend reading while doing an interpretive dance. For the haikus, let me suggest the two-step.

Good Luck Crossing the River Styx with a Bouquet of Roses

The flowers we leave for the dead

white lilies

make a lousy bouquet for a first date

but are perfect for the last date

especially if our date is waiting for us six feet below

(talk about a cheap date)

and you meet her at a funeral

and roses seem so inappropriate for a funeral

especially when they’re red

cause life and death are so black and white

except if you’re a ghost

like Bruce Willis in Sixth Sense

then you must be so confused

when the mirror is held up

to you and though you feel alive and well

you’re dead

and you don’t know whether to go to the night or to the light

and so you give grey flowers to the ferry man

who tosses them into the River Styx

and you stand at the riverbank

watching them drift off into the abyss

checking your pockets for change.

Stepping Over the Homeless Man on the Way to the Theater

I know why the homeless man sleeps

so early in the evening

there he is at eight o’clock asleep on the sidewalk

as theatergoers walk around him to catch the raising of the curtain

of a show they will see

like the dream the homeless man dreams

taking him from his tortured reality

filled with the lack of humanity

and later the theatergoer exits the theater humming the play’s theme song

as the homeless man awakes to his foot brushing past his nose.

Tickling the Armpits of Time

Today’s text message is yesterday’s

science fiction

time and technology are oh so relative

like looking at your watch as you cross the International Date Line

only to land

to read the shadow in the sand

lit off a sundial in Thailand

and it’s half past the pebble meaning three-thirty pm

on the beach seconds before high tide

washes it all away

when your watch is still stuck on Toronto time

where the night reads stories by the hush of three a.m. street lights

and tonight we set the clocks back

because we can do that

we can screw with time

while all the while time stalks us

like lost shadows of midnight’s sundial

so dark we can’t see the shadow let alone the stick

and still we have the power

to make it two o’clock

for the second hour in a row.

The Fly Flew The Coop (Even a Fly with All His Eyes)

Trapped between the window screen and the door

like a fly that got caught before making a break for

the outside

after having spent the entire afternoon stuck inside

a house that the non denominated fly would call hell

a hell where you can see the trees but you weren’t free to flea them

cause if the fly flew straight outside

he would bump into an invisible force

that we would call a window

but the fly would call a force field

until the front door opened and the fly with all its eyes saw its chance to fly

and flew a bee line straight for the open door and infinity

escaping the finite confines of this detached bachelor’s inside

only to fly eye first into the screen door slamming shut

and seeing that even the infinite is relative

 

Measuring Art In The Rings of a Tree

Science can only take us so far

we’re still waiting for the second act for cryogenically frozen heads

while satellites pass Jupiter, sure

though not as far as our paints and saints go

I mean imagine the mind of Michelangelo mixing his palettes

beneath his dripping ceiling of this Sistine Chapel

and who do you think he created first

God or man?

The science of art

this mixing of photosynthesis of yellow and blue

married to spring leaves

and everything green in between

and all those planets that can’t be seen

we believe

lie in an outside galaxy

other branches of this same tree

making papery promises

mapping out this Milky Way’s majesty with poetry

all the while pinch yourself

cause we’re all living posthumously.