by John Pursch
Long-lost lover ionized to solitary blameless blank, scrubbed derision cleans her into clarity’s smooth orbit, eyes conveying ruminating crease mechanics, surface aura out of whiskey, towels to wipe lobotic womb, body fallen onset wiggling hands in cufflink stew, regurgitating serpentine retention contract: “You’ve surely read by now of weekend blur still peering down eternal rows to pierce immersion plunging formal filigree… and here and here and well yes here…”
Lola sits with endless rows of clarifying seekers, all beyond the 48 allotted hours, taupe internal sweeping globes retracing steps to many days ahead, infernal racket buried into utter silence, deeper rationed logic binding finders into sought and sorted, hoarded into newly smearing relapse: “Childhood needs another scan, yes you’ll be fine, Miss Kirov, impasse guaranteed, perhaps a copied prototype, inhuman gel, but really we cannot risk you winking into shuffled heat of thermal dog erasure…”
Sudden touch of shoulder, off to somehow soaked in glimpse of surf, cascading lava, kicking out of towline chaff, passing hand through weary faces, rubbing eyes awake in I’llbequirky breakfast counter soda thought of hashing bubble upper exit, off in extra diction’s playpen, skids refuel incarnate action, rippling past eidetic engines, walk away to cattle call inertial guidebook station, time-band splice collation fits an uttered lifeboat, snap to prescient wafer, dime bag erosion into coffer, newsprint exacta banner grabs interment leaf, pounding ageless gender, flops to outer sensitive, train to numbered squeeze…
She’s bleary, bellies up to lasting Annular encoder, fencing grainy lucid starch mache purloined in tactile wound, sparking feral tryst before tradition burns to continuity’s congeal, specter wends alone to Days Ago for deeper filter regress, downing gutters trained to offsite handholds, lockdown shoes in subtle slippage, “What, a Montauk?” latent sequence bygones buckling her to future lock.
Cataclysms wink above avowed aspersion, potting starch comestibles in Sherry code erosion melt. Hankies swell to bauxite trousers, timing helpers into sticky figurines. Lanyards dangle reshaped thighs, dressing louvered shiners in bucolic alibies. Core schematics twinkle over bath-towel cymbals, denting humble characters with serried histrionics, glimpsed thorough weather code. Glockenspiels hatch enveloped quartz, taping harpsichord segues. Winds retouch an open pore, drowning blind chemistry, flipping votive slogans into virgin alley-oops. Lola bends an airy oar, flexing tensile strudel, coping with her numbered gaze in daylight crates, hip to omnipresent Grays, luminescent limpid eyes feasting into neural motes of human swells, clipped distraction’s central visage, inklings of an hourly spine.
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