by John Pursch
Backscratcher boxes of basements, shared by bland, illegitimate crammers of gill-feeding gorillas, sweat a million pleasant ends to all the seedy, unflattering deeds you've never admitted, never recalled, not a glance given from the steely-eyed perch of a lion trap, skeet-shooting stuffed olives. Road children stimulate the small of your back with hankerings for warm clothes and extra hump dollars, crashing found nuisance sheets with half a greasy fable. If only the dormant pendulum could dangle, fluttering, over arctic vestibules and ancient footwear; how we might then dive into certain ducts of bland, turbid idolatry, glimpsing the tail lights of a supermarket special. Alas, the tangled whoosh can only expend a sermon's nimble twist, oozing curried sound and pivots of a remnant's vital roar. Help two to tangle in a fleshy lab coat, gargling asymptotic remoulade, peering into a peasant's final act of parricide. Show hooves to specious, weathered samples, elucidating all the shredded trophies, garrulous in their moody, frayed ontology for spaniels.
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