Travelers Welcome

Travelers Welcome

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Reversal Rub

by John Pursch

Hat down, huddled troop door slant in full tribunal pause, Kabuki Clem wipes age from colder faceplate to trimmed alluvial personae, clogged abutment saddle shoes licking solid sores of foppish safecracker news; all but swipe itching dowager’s loutish wrench lips, unscrew happy loam of dirgelike dustbin decoupage, eating corked canaries off car door contraband, pelting civilian whereabouts with unseen ham. 

“Delimit erstwhile rotation mouths, conning severed towers from hallway gulfs to overcast widgets in Terran Hoax skyline,” Kabuki operates, dripping spatter of clarity in boldly embossed tartar.

Data Chef squeezes cartilage from lone mosquito emblem, breezing plural infection cone for lazing priapic donors, speckling blue desk from skyward hospice relegation, simpering crowd whines to wide-eyed charbroiled daze, souvenirs raining on palatial tributaries, tears sliding uptown in gaseous belief.

“Chasing wad -- a clemency serration box, mixed to single digit commotion?” Chef sidelines, chopping fused vertebrae on sandwiched signs of messy autistic grape skin crate.

“Wheedle me disrespectful hotly cantilevered bipedal modus, preparation of titular pageantry nodding witty stumps, rebranding horsehide cowlicketty slipstream gerunds, hey spay quad oops?” Kabuki erupts, projectile comet’s irksome olive drab reptile airborne, halfway to valet chop shop’s soothing pedicure.

“High ravenous pundit’s miniature tape resection storm scurries for louvered indigenous curling pyre, scrolled to roundhouse tidal wolf care,” Chef replies, tossing razor batons into wading ceiling funnels. “Weaving mild toxins on bald rock calf evasion, I sleep quaintly retained, infernal content stashed before venous shake.” 

Clem he cannot take it anymore. “Too abstract!” shouting bolts up and outa front door, guns blazing, bullets tracing execution’s moonlit daffodils of old country lane suddenly interchanged for Your Nuke city sidewalk. “Ha! Chef he fix me in blown baloney warehouse wig!” 

Chef collapse in heap of dusty rags, shifting bones distilled to flesh bag neurosis kettle, wanders seamlessly in sentinel freeze, captured to mingled stanza burlap wheeze of gestured exotic roll-on gush. Oozing down elbow to shin he smears reversal rub on cobblestone, old keystone cops, carthorse spokes, lavish escapades of talkie walkabout phrase machines, slopping from furtive past to posited wilderness, draining offal into wading tank’s sebaceous cistern. 

Bogged by ownership ducks, he soothes aromatic nodules of spacetime detritus with coonskin cadaver feet, copped to tonal interior bloodline glow, sopping up bossy manacles and ritualized tendril cake mats. Hair colludes with notarized beef, stroking outer grain cuffs, timed to mumbling stellar watchmen, winding off a mealy tort soup’s chaise souffle. 

Spinning up to torpor’s educated sectional function, Kabuki delivers steadily strummed conception kinks, remanding bonked hortatory cultures to aggravated salt, flooding swirled fervor with illegible foolish grapefruit, melodic harm in dysentery raincoat cowls, hovering beneath crime belt stasis sheen, defaulting flat u-turn vials to stifled lightning, cached to lapsing urban escapee dusk.

“Taint noddin’ con be ton ablution drat; measly planet chops Guyana hefty leaf wadayagnu?” Chef he tosses up bottled hounds and rubs fur the bartered future on fleece-lined posh incinerator’s paused eternal pasties, wedged hover cons a foisted hearse.

“Reality’s bestial comb au paired onus!” Kabuki crows, proudly spraying entire establishment with all manure of time drug wheeze, clouding disappearing act, auctions, sanctioned biers, passive espadrilles, borderline pleasure tease not in tactile glutinous jungle stretch of waffling hieratic dungeon. 

Flown to steeper pustules, crude test coattails resemble dunking notice surgeons, pressed to bottom feeder grist, indolently disheveled proposition plops, grueling fractionated piecemeal sticks emasculating humid tights from oceanic leggings, barred to wheedled conch motels, bereaved in plaudit cravings for cold can spoons of iridescent radial scorn.

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