Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Rubber Heron

by John Pursch

Argyle ergonomists imply affluent portage queens in diatribes of eczema and spindrift seasons not withheld from tubal orders, groveling for supper curves in modest pendular comas. Heavier sidebars loaf in barge fanatic sheet parades, dancing to wedded breastworks of bubbly toxin mortuaries and grazing percolation steer. A bevy of whiffle tux casino blokes suspends tomato feeding grumps from pleasure onset whist, demolishing pentameters with cue ball hiccups, flaunting oyster checkers before a dorsal pest can eke out denatured stipend flocks for lanyard leis in triplicate. Haughty toy geysers imbue bilious redcoats with scrimshaw whimsy, wobbling into sunken hedges, rowing past cheated plump shrews in subterranean syringes. Stirrups comb eventual bulwarks, clearing bullion fronds, spouting porous entrees from reading gnats, clouting boxed chafing drones atop atonal platters, menaced by wizened caricatures of tidal authenticity’s suburban stain. Sliding odors perpetrate a busty dinette wheeze, finessing philanthropic chestnut oxen over brute necrotic tees. Parallel gumption trains encephalic punch cards to floss ennobled klieg flutes, harping on smoky serrated paramours when crosshatched muffins exile woofers to Icelandic yore. Capacious interludes endure thronged undulation, peering uptown, beyond enchanting morticians, glazing bylaws beneath carousing sawmill troops. Castaways imbibe a sandbar’s purest supine farthing, sailing mothballed pence till fallow merchants irrigate decanted treason. Squeeze on, rubber heron, plotting pallid Asian treatises, besotted and debauched, broaching decorticated chalk fields with crisis loops, paunchy and redacted, porcine but prevaricated, casting gypsies for depilatory crowd-ruse matinees, made of funereal toil, carping on fired axes, ratcheting syrupy chase routines to reap a perforated sofa. Buildings relapse in sundial crows, living off mascara till moonrise, sneezing every other catcall’s inner noon embrace, plucking drowned redundant warriors from rivulets of pickled steel. Angular ingots pelt emergent promises with oxide baths, sizzling over embalming tramcar toast, spouting blown corruption. Barometric cargo heaps palatial ballast’s grainy kisses, throttled way past starlight, glossy and bituminous. Empty folders cloud hypnotic ancillary cushions, balk at telethons for armpit clues, and tape infernal loaves to crated sprocket hugs, speckled by a shackled haze. Plaques espy a mated styrene cocktail, mulling over Turing diseases, machined to porters per a village cupola. Thunder oozes non-stop, flashing gunnery swelter, pooling paper crescendos where omnipresent flint agrees. Denatured angels insure rhapsodic glances from tabletop cessation’s crenellated tar pit, cleaving crockery from escutcheoned greetings. 

1 comment:

  1. A "Rubber Heron" is not a "Red Herring."

    And this is not a very good prose poem.

    "April Fool's"!!

    This is a great prose poem!

    Do you have a problem with that?

    Well, do ya, Punks!