Disco Vertigo

by Sam Morris

The light makes the furniture appear alive,
some pieces dying.

Maybe they are struggling to breathe
atop shag carpet in mustard gas yellow.

Sequins startle the smoke-filled air,
amplify platform shoes and acid-fueled libidos.

It’s not illusion, the tired orange sofa
undeniably writhes.

I offer no proof, simply the theory
that I am God and that is how I got on the ceiling.