Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Canned Hockey, Holmes

by John Pursch

Wheeling down to pond-scum gravel thought, Kabuki Clem drinks tightly woven casualties through cloggy breathing apparatus, stuck in fusion fits from swampland cesspool stint near Everglades horizon berth. Greasy youth returns in plumb line retrofit, flooding Clem with dreams of interbreeding lobots, decadal flipside’s carnal tap root wedged in human byline stupor. Wealth of gigged transmission sparks calamitious off-planet ooze of coupling hybrids, fistulae of planned irradiation; not quite spaniel marriage ala Sam Nabisco animal tract, but authorized in feudal courtyard premises, crossing systematic gist. Internal timeline prescience upholds the law of landed seepers, spins to throbbing embryotic heat, inserting thinly owned confabulation, extracting seam-screw tips in vile lobotic subterfuge, chipping lung ejection spates from ergonomic bugle wax. Not to spay a bolide if towline autonomic missiles strafe immobile zebras for anxiety’s pet croupier, oven seas of birdbrain lime go looming in Kabuki’s clammy zonal octet wash, grapefruit lozenge lounge denying pending traces of balmy ergonomic craters. Semblances of night converge in frozen weekly chambers, herding bedstand ermine spokes, immune to oxcart diction, debriefing oily vicars with replicated sores of ancillary mop-up. Wandering up with bubbling ears, harkening to a tumbler’s fall, Kabuki wakes in spangled floss derision, fondly pressurized in stable boots, gobbling shipped emotion kicks to sway in pointless shining reason. He lacks reduction spots of mellow poise demise, suspecting bourbon dignity of cavalier civility, owing venal silence pleas gone trenchant, disregarding moose tears. Buxom lobotic forelocks feed him shorn sheeple, plunged atomic fealty, and cabled turnkey charioteers, ensuring activated pick-offs. Hardened andirons activate his hocked musician ploy; soon he’s grunting natty hen somatic weal and plotting capes of neat ergodic goulash mien in laughing gowns. How can Clem’s bald breviary bleed away in puddled regress, when Campy Chia clarity repels his Groinland thermidor from pulverizing dreamt Canned Hockey, Holmes?

No comments:

Post a Comment