The Chosen Span of Lifetimes

by John Pursch

Parquet lore in paranoia screeds
scour fully cyclic swimming ghouls
for sluiced pendulums and
checkerboard turnstile terriers
on pummeled hopscotch rodeo release,
served hypothetically to over-eager
ceiling supper speakers on sabbatical
from supple sheathings of
Pleistocene facemask runes.

Nodding to potential cubbyholes,
shoals of kindly carded plunder age
in stubbly floral primping disarray,
scaring up slumped turpentine
in smoldering seedbeds of
yeast deflection corrugation
seizure’s momentary fog.

From cheese to shining postcard tramps
on flavored idiosyncratic creature compounds
of searing molecules in tidal slats
pawned niftily in daylight trading’s
posture outhouse silence,
high school crushes wax in mudline faults
to geriatric gelatin companionship,
held softly in the chosen span of lifetimes.

Beneath a Circus Winter

by John Pursch

Resting heads respire
in carload bluster,
flouting nearly grousing
dignity for shapely scolded
cockatoos who creep about
in forty horded ammunition
belts of diamantine rust.

Ambulatory ermine question
fiefdom trial-and-carrion,
forging lemonade from
fettered ductile monocles,
harmonic ash imperatives,
and curb-lung onset underlings.

Servomotor boatswains
welter into mooing capes
of ipso klaxon godsend
serpentine pantechnicons
till gnashing newsstand pith
forks into bareback porkpie
haddock reefs.

Scene removal remonstrates
for hoary retroactive danger,
shown to cowering stammerers
in flick approval ferry splits
of panning shame regression cogs
spun silently in murky frowsy
bowl-cut bruise assignment boots
beneath a circus winter.

Shop Owl Ease

by John Pursch

Distal ascent imagination crackers
startle cupcake filigree with spoon
retardant miscellany chokers,
facile and incendiary to a fallen
centennial levitator’s celebrated
winch correction shellfish trait,
cloned seriously from tapir assays
of syrupy loquacity.

Extraneous cloudtop kneelers
punctuate evenly bulbous atrocities
with sink-skin shoveled hammer urges,
sifting seedless needles in tornado chats
for peacenik artichoke investment dolphins,
soldered at sunset to carpool odium lapels.

Barfly hints rewind reclusive
forelocks of slum legato pleasure scans,
pinching shop owl ease in teeming carrot
salt initiation, caulked before a bubbling
khaki graduate collides with fetal umpire
trigonometry excuse reiteration mix.

Seasons of the Ape

by John Pursch

Nylon captives creak
in thermogenic motor
hovel blister hiss
compaction rituals,
plugging matrimonial
defection sprints with
newly sweating
pontoon spins,
cycling wheezes
into mourning.

Minnows foment
religious hyperbole
by the sextant’s
lusty gleaming
intersection teeth,
hemming integument
with pinochle breath’s
lonesome punch line.

Eruptive sidearms
capsize in moaning
glaucous schisms,
clubbing for pale red
seasons of the ape.

Lola Peaks

by John Pursch

She balances sweet petulance
and grapefruit mocha gumption,
taps a scorched coat ballyhoo
deflection suite of etude
swagger wanderlust,
and vitiates injunction tattoo
query circumambulation,
blistering polenta snuff
repaving schemes with
genuflecting naivete.

Diatonic ambulance schematics
roll in tubal titration vestibules,
teaching downbeat shift
hypocrisy to chapped munitions,
spatial tics nodding into quartile
droop’s balustrade of searing
monocular conundrums.

Follicles tunnel sinfully to
nether dotage highbrow panorama
kinks above cirrhosis slobber,
brewed in midtown demolition
stoplight garnish mating chains,
squelching alley malts with
private idler locale cheers
and moribund specifics,
traveling from shore house
gourd bequeathment trout
to cacciatore carborundum,
impounding sunken chattel
blips for shafted showers of
pathway ensign pensioners
on vacuous rotation screws,
endowing apostolic plumage.

Boba Looey Big Shot

by John Pursch

Yes siree, blob o’ lucid
ski-waxing perfunctory persiflage,
pellucid insipidities are flying,
bereft and beknighted,
pestering nocturnal hay missionaries
till tipsy docile hounds abjure
the focal minestrone communicant
to peculate imperious raggamuffin
tarts in dorsal disk reward retreat,
chopping binocular comas
to cowabunga punji creaks,
seeping polity in footprint antiseptic
street marauder greens of roughage glades
and sea-preened stolid sisterhood’s
connubial canard.

Nod to munchkin whirligig plump gestation,
tapped from tribal tree-length gunny sacks
to geezers spearing coiled orangutan expulsion meals
of soldered mandibles and ghoulish centaur fielders,
gibbon Titus Corncob Hat Rack #26
a rung for his gyrating monkey.

Now weird talkies splurge upon the stagecoach, crying:
“Shotgun Annie’s exclusive wheelhouse nut crackin’
window flaps to the rescue!”

Chest in dime, too,
nut amino toucan spurious
Boba Looey Big Shot’s purposeful
redaction mist contraption goose confabulator,
now diced and frozen into babbled ewe retainer feet,
lopping off the headway roomie circus ideation breath,
what one mired in stinky hyena crap woulda schemed
to fly offal mine handlebar mustard ashcan routine,
served vile and coldcocked on the
Sea of Unguentine’s Militia Ordeal of 1831,
some sixteen days and nautical nothings
out of Nantucket Inner Sound
(famed for aural coral manipulato segue bumpkins
and votive neurologically entranced doormen,
freshly grousing over stupor’s cilia, pustulating pomposity,
and brashly bombed aspic’s incendiary eschatologists).

Flimflam Werewolf

by John Pursch

Limpy gimpy Jiffy-slobbering
lugubrious chupacabra impersonators
flex and flog their flimflam werewolf wherewithal
from warehouse warrens deep in hearty laughter’s
nomadic gnome aunt’s laudatory laundry lisp
of pure emphatic emphysema sailor exhalations,
spreading turtledove disease itch mothball
infatuation arches into ash receptacles
of shed potter blondes, sinfully cohabitating,
scrounging chalk for sashay wedding tables,
calling country castaways to ideal pressure
speakers in run-for-millstone milk-toast
hospice dome retraction fits.

Nervously Teutonic infantile psoriasis purveyors
scan the bedside aneurisms for cottage pleas and
clovered spreads of sandbox chunky psilocybin heresies,
propped again in handy cramps of fever issuance delay
to piled authentic couriers on lurching floes of tethered
Mylar tributaries, flung hairless and uncombed to
Grecian mortuary symptoms, orally replanted into
frozen youth display parolee accusation breasts,
despite an achromatic acrobatic undersea divan’s
imploding whistle.

Tinsel flowers desiccate in married furlongs
of Caspian capsize queens on second-hurdle
monkey swoons from Hegypped’em curses
of denial entendre hull the swayback machina
to angler machination bits of snorting amorphous
melodies of odious crank contemptibility,
comestible but surgically scoured for fully
bloated bile illusion specialists, complete with
spatial dicks and crockery tocks of loaded Glocks,
flocking into dockside frocks of plundered ageless
Aegean torpedo haunters, yearning to tease
tyrannically inclined supine duct tape chompers
with entailed regalia serotonin mist and
frail nervosa empathy hyphens.

Highball Innuendo

by John Pursch

Cerebellar misadventures of the windshield shot
graze lead-lined pillbox hatteries of chilly ragged coat lines,
dangling in the breezy contender’s waistcoat pocket,
foiled by rubber ink extravagance and
mutually eschatological neckline plunges,
drenching mossy torpedo bellies in
floozy underwear rewetting blots
of cobweb dancer pinafores glazed patiently
with greenery and grainy droppings
from a salutatory duckling’s pejorative
incantation of runaway tarmac blues.

No one could stand, let alone sit still for,
handy moral outrigger netting of the kind
so biliously cobbled from worn mosquito handiwork,
so expertly spurted by schlong-lust mustard seeds
in scenery disputes with top-dog hopscotch periphery’s
nunnery exposition welts, promised dryly in vague
retreat cordons to plumage spurners nationwide
in cackling car door commissary kumquat squatter rites,
deep within Groin Zorro’s missing tantrum of jacked
ten-wheeler recompense and tartan misconception’s
ill-defined crowned taro punch line, flicking August
into rigged mulatto terminals of situated empties.

Time danced round apostrophes
in pearly canned sedation, flirting mirthlessly
with two-armed shifty-bottomed botulism vendors,
hoping for a Frisbee tourniquet detachment tray,
traipsing with intestines dangling over catwalk silence impresarios,
meowing under waterfall suffusion’s highball innuendo.

Fixamatic

by John Pursch

And so O’Flaherty E-Roarkin’ Tweedy Two-Piling
Flamepot Torino-Angler-4-Fleshscan Farmbot
(alias Sunsheen Q-Table Fixamatic Sox Machina)
was always renounced from seed to shiny spleef,
as any whirled-wide louver’s primary basted
mating tourniquet might be...

Well, this slovenly grout-fer-notchy
wrench ova wenchy wonder,
she staggers between barstools
batter tan any udder armchair
totally dug-knee-terrier blow-by-blowbot
what Yule never have deep rivulets
of purely mined loud goop,
latter lone good luck,
to mate in personage or when exiled
on an otter planetoid in sherbet aloud
summed starry-sighed canned stellae shins,
tanned intoned and of course purr-flecked lea attached
to seven amour (hey!) stumblingly spinning thighs
lick wad weave Yeti sea graze the soil or hat most fear
of hourly wander fuel planet Dearth.

Hear, led me given ye hind spansule
of wad she zounds alike when she pluralizes:

“Aaooooh, ladled biceps honers,
stuck hon palmipsest Dearth,
shame dimes noun has plangent Dirt.

Swell come’s sorely swilling up
hen yer bulkheads bellow dick,
high can seize data weed out
heaven clocking a shekel
on yer seemingly measely orbit.

Whelp, antsy blonde-ruddered feminine lobotic
ken sea wad’s cumin on,
phlegm halfway surround da galactic hub,
dusty opaquity knot-weed-spandex.

Highs closet, laps spurted,
higher tail ye icon feeble yer savory surge,
haul twelve bullion of youse,
nest jut yearning toucan but hag chew alley
scumming upper sturm und dragnet,
spouting threw thyme without heaven
you sing temporal drugs or thyme mache!

Quiet an extraordinary fleet
ewe bays’ve menage’d to pull offal,
hefty ye drone mine the pun!”

Snow Flannel Creamsicle

by John Pursch

Shaman Weirdo Chet,
lotion queen extraordinaire,
dominant pax vobiscum vendor of
proboscis prostheses from Ovarian
Sveltenland to Luft Blank of Serengentifroid Rivulet,
cheap mercantile chopstick sidewalk abomination in
eyefuls of any lucid daydreaming steamship simulacrum;

in short, he breathe poisonous gustatory favoritism
with every ribald exhalation of exalted exhumation…

Chetly dream of attaining she-male status,
hermaphroditic aspirant gone sour
to eggplant noose concoction quaffer,
practical submerged hourly under tiny
paper bumbershoot of blam-blamboozle
snickers from all quartered corridors,
smiling millennial garrisons spewing
insidiously pale invective in quandary
heap of moldy toilette and rag o’ da mouth
sore clubfoot dangle kit bag eruptive chancre,
topped off with whipped Creamsicle of frozen
poi in taro-tinctured waistband seepage.

Still, Chet laugh at sunrise, taunt
cyclotomic integrity with tinny stone throw
of previous century Laudanum’s tubal tile raid
in bric-pac scattershot semblance of logistic
paralysis under junkie sky scream
to heathen-go-lousy store blight,
ceding bitten piles to timid travails of
twirling Battened Rouge, Glueiezee Handya
tripwire totem recourse flit.

Snow Flannel Can, puttering up
Cistern Hamjelloca’s delicate thighs,
synchs to next-door hammering on
Wotan’s pyre of fallen backs and archway
shivers into gold Snowember flurries,
blacking out to Prussian Font floss bites,
cinched evisceration tights, and brewed
enamel demolition churn of Zulu showers
in harrowed isthmus carp asleep from
low-light Howayan tribal stools humming
Nuku-Nuku-Your-a-Lei-Laid
Shyly-Bino-Breachout Corpsicle.

Chet he plop three year ahead in sudden schlep,
solely due to laugh can pounding on heat-addled
traipsing tonic belief ingredients, kept closet ooze
his vestibule tell icon grapple him black to
prescient-daze ArchandTina.

Nod sew bland to be dislocated
hefty weigh around the globule;
lease he’s lauded on planet Dearth
in horror less hour timeline.
Shim what salvageable, by antsy
salivator’s standards.

Phenobarb

by John Pursch

Low-slung pocketed and pilloried poppies grow sidelong in hustled snowbound escrow totem potions, wafting elongated trunk line noise of treetop escapades to jugular infusion’s terrifying mastiff, breathing solidarity in timed illusion’s predatory beatnik phase of quantized birth, misbegotten youthful lassitude, and beachball bunko squad car zeal on tumid asphalt ideograms of spawned intent.

Garbled miscreant woe floats recital plans down canal breast stoolies, cruelly fueling interdicted continental humdrum piano parties with snake entendres, rippling the sky for welding stork deliberation squawks, chewed to lazy hotel stockyard grooming towers, bleary eyed and groaning over phenobarb in plastic bagman clarifier squints. 

I burble, take another tablespoon of powdered Barbie doll with tap water, and flop back on the seedy old couch, watching daylight slowly creep across the wooden floor’s faded nail heads. Televised ecstatic fits emulsify on curtain rods, treading wafer-thin soldier empties into nexus rounds of car door manufacture, genuflecting to reversal’s v-neck kingdom of sagging Christmas serration, fornication grinding clockwork couples off at queasy kneepads, feathering propwash offspring to queening mumbles.

Mainspring waters waddle from side street leeway sump hits to call-girl hall pass sleet massage, infesting pillar intestines with low-flying bedspring pox, gaveled to gravy garrote gravel sunsets in wheelhouse camaraderie by comediennes in vacant hominy leaps. Snuggling steeps the mourning desk junkie in fused terrarium tears, flushing sanguine flesh to subway torpedo verandas and viewport gnus on safari from sofa dereliction booty’s straightener needle, wheezing wallflower dusk in twenty-second seizure bulkhead dues, imploding hourly to teaspoon write-off duodenum kites.

Forced ciphers implant satire’s glyphs in lunging rebirth canticles of cuticle craters and warm criteria, socking cloned copper spills with hinterland stew’s industrial statesmen, toppling deadwood steering peels beyond anathema’s Panamanian strainer bleat. Pulverized yore scans shoeless histrionics for beveled oaf kumquat cake, missing hexagonal subjectivity’s warped inset mop amidst the chosen catamaran’s ideal hinge set. 

Sputum resurfaces quorum quoits with coital cinder hearth ejecta, flossing the troposphere with eyelash sweat in littered bollocks, foisting lurid knights on ogled tinsel’s interrogative recompense for strudel sandwiches of U-boat violin entrancement. Public uppers flit from store-bought moths to hens of transitory segue telepaths, predicated on lurching four-door codgers and glaucomatous postcard press-on quarries, slipped in hebephrenic tarantula shadows.

Tea Box Quartets

by John Pursch

Outa timid pyramidal tautologies come buxom bauxite saleswomen, freely reeling off pidgin pie dunderhead expediency’s puerile cuneiform wavefronts in spherical trigonometric cascades of cauliflower entropy. 

Passing ossified retractions with qualified plumb line approbation, nurses of the 52nd Gunnery Chapel filch swordfish saturation manuals from Company Q’s headwater giblet weekend retweet, mingling tweezers with tumbleweed insecticide arrival clots, sorted hourly into secondhand stools. 

I’ve adhered to homespun depravity’s cyclonic sidelines, sensing naked cigarette confusion sap in fully flown deportation blurbs of syntactic warrior sheaves, penning paltry gallows whinnies when hoarse chowder parts sigh separately, relaxing into Bermuda tide lunge clinging motions. 

Just as issues of a backbeat cylinder inure us to calendars in hypostatic leering’s grueling release point, dashed hermaphrodites appeal to lexicography’s swollen penchant for tomfoolery and uncool familial gratings, pining to be leafy. 

Treachery wonders whenever scotched patrimony affiliates defy enunciated smooches with pickles on eponymous epoxy ladders, repelling down gristle mote fall away chompers. 

Abased extras vaguely memorize pedestal linguini siren crill, peopling thrilled jock straps with stomach crumpets, tea box quartets, and socially self-similar suffusion prints in quasi-periodic nascence. 

Nooner Daydream

by John Pursch

And what could Albumenthian Q. Hoppledespotch, Foisted Chauncylator of Royal Swobodia, say to canned vindictive plaintiffs of cursory, plaid-bred, morally chelated, peanut-ridden, hopscotch-infested monkey calendars? Nothing! 

Et war penny-paunchy hopeless to con sieves with antsy careworn constabulary festive brutes, the climb to widened horizons baying softly at the gentle moon in swooning car door penury, flipping offal in heady tales of nooner daydream sacroiliac tumbler kicks, flaming backstand races in groves of cylindrical marginalia pleats, smoked to popular vacancy troughs of bean clop shovel feet in dearly fondled dyspepsia, maligned by fuming tigress iguana tees and sapiential crawdad pachyderms in anonymity’s lifeline to spousal whittling stalls. 

Nanoseconds spread spelunking crossbow argyle preppy sloganeers to pounds of insight, dishing hyperbolic leash grenades in fennel tortellini growths beneath symmetric earful lashes, blending grappling hazing hooks with hair lace buckles, interleaving tonal fractionation’s bruiser displacement whelps at ivory udder station creaks. 

Perspiration plopped intact upon acidic poultice mops, tasking sows to hype aweigh in tearful exegetical youth, pressing lazy charbroiled intuition’s puny intimate repayment breeze for unified and fissile bubbles, switched to second consequential lattice toes, pinning famous prices into rhomboid miscellany’s sworn obloquy.

Gin Stump Shovel

by John Pursch

  

Glassy knots offer holistic socket pumps to rolling pardoned casualties of soaring selfless gorgon wharf repeater glaze, spotting helpless elms in dirty handheld sofa lace, pleating grass to softly humping shrouds of leather alabaster waves.

Handle me roughly, hordes of rainy grime, in fields beyond a stupefying lea, framed with seasoned lip-sync joy of perforating wheeze within a shell-shocked disembodied huckster’s frozen knuckle handball dipstick.

Flooding flounder vitiate a vitriolic capstone’s cooly capsized dashboard pew, spawned to rototiller gravity in pending situational deflection breath, mingling hourly with showy veteran memories.

Blankets frosted, hokey septum, itchy hairball mastodons, in prowling fuel tank sympathy, exposed to hogtied elements of periodic waistline hustle, pinned to dank edition daughter linkage, pawning earless hoopster cocoa to Prussian armature shakers, bending decks for fidgety throw rugs…

Goners whale Nefertiti’s canoe to flail in questioning disgrace, disheveled hounds dismantled in babble floor crime sensation prayers. You still pick athletic star charts, framing rump house cortex meals for gin stump shovel hoops, cheering on courageous middlemen to minute-munching domicile creation, trenching adroitly.

Shame on Sammy

by John Pursch

Velour scrunch never was recited more canonically than annual satyrs fashioned from squalid ocean hut armories, sifting pallets for bullion, filching banyans of highfalutin raspings, pillaging cowering fuselage stockades, crumpled into minstrel tea. Nuances disappear, addling the lightest slouch with stairwell lorry signposts, hindering berated gallons of postcard clues in gravel kitchen oratory’s bejeweled retracement. 

Hidden mentors bark at troglodytic moccasins, trying ontological featurettes in shedding navel blues. Roomy aeration grates on meager witchcraft junkies, festering in salad. Gazebo haze erodes to karmic redolence, shadowing espied collaboration’s wacky seamstress, copping hearty lineaments of hemmed-in mosquito jargon’s only barrage poltroon’s garbled basement sale. 

Your Nuke’s naked sunrise grows in stocky repetition, plugging macaroons for deltoid daisy chumps, slumbering through moaning marrow’s swooning necrophilia, slipping idly off derailment’s nodal nectar lode, pulled to tethered cormorants and wheedled auspice Geritol commercial shouts of animation’s editorial encumbrance.

Ineluctable frugality pauses to bounce in shallow watchword chasms, springing diamondback creation sacks on sunken scepters, allergens bedazzled by musical inklings of tartar. Sheared themes bay in momentous signature pylons, sequencing cemented gnomes to frontal pardons of eighty alluvial flavors, burnt indelibly for fatuous gentlemen to guzzle in mid-day matinees. 

Shame on Sammy’s perspicacious purple popsicle salliers, learning to spay cetacean dumplings in twenty furious fluoridated crates of juicy validators, fed to celebrated ionizers by the mourning son.

Lola Redux

by John Pursch

The sky hears wild animals cackling, screams of ripped duress in moonless lantern woe, torn distended disregard for sudden snap of boneyard detritus, of wizened forfeiture in prudently rescinded tree line wanderings, felt from carbonized bearings to graven theatrics, spilling over waistline gun rack testaments. Built to iron cauldron dream wave specs, heated beyond toiling defenestration’s syncopated hyphen, its parapets congeal in frozen amulets of dogged aridity, flexing coiled musculature with acerbic beautician girth’s smoldering hieratic wit, fending for shellfish spinster potpourri, regardless of dilated trilogies in taut duplicitous sidearm winds.

Sweating heavenly insights, Lola surfaces from centuries of owl vacation hostage broth, fondly waxes her dosimeter’s crystalline gauge, and shimmies coyly down an eyeless tube stop missile board, surfing decadal imminence for withering motorcycle hands. Engines wind in Doppler fade from noon to midnight curtain contamination, purple perspicacity bubbling by enhancement’s civil laundry puppetry cascade, gone to statutory primes of livid unrest. Steamy sockets wring her swollen lids to blinking codices of terminal keypad blues, flickering typographic turnstiles beneath empaneled neural drone of retraced stumps and penciled hernias, acted out in tessellated sighs.

It has been so long for lovely Lola, too very lung long languorous and listless, seasonal vortices notwithstanding, submerged in solid rock of fluid timescape jangle, swapping hidden variants of faceless corridors and asymptotic footfall sleep with dazzling daisies, counterparts in ashcan bliss conveyance bilge, altered therefores, hithertos, howsomevers, and waddling whoop-de-dumpty wetness have-yous, habilitation knots, short-shrift script erasures, pondered pendulums impending gaseous prayer protection, fusillades of fuselage insertion floss, and ipso factotum vesicles of stolid symptomatic accusation whims, scuttled with prancing ingenuity’s folly…

She tips her glass bottom to sealed stripling augury, flooding her neckline, warmly serene in clairvoyant speckles of frosty futurity, pasting hoarse runes in throaty savage cries of foxtrot embolisms, mirrored between greener cartoons.

Fifths of Krazy Glue

by John Pursch

Breathing counterclockwise, rainy trachea elapse in tone-deaf parimutuel flagons, sipping trance leaves from strafing merit gazes, hopped by well-wishing neutrality clunkers. Quail kit stimuli crawl by in sanguine prosody, axing stevedores to reason between stone Raisinets, shopping jobbed slobberers for parietal notaries. Moons might imagine caressed incendiary prelates, dressed to nightly vestibules, oft recalled in reliquary wharf debris, but phonic tantrums never munch on new romantic rheumatoid insecticide, gearing off for hardy artisans of a wayward swordfish debutante’s beveled hairdo. Polenta maneuvers to atonal squadron gel, bingeing on harried ghost decrees, swallowing poltroon keys when octagons illuminate symmetric cocoa feet from barfly towel ingredients. Degradation leers at ogling herds of ghoulish curls, flipping loaves in shark tomato crests, posing as drawn dirigible deflection dolts. The wheel of eaten elves emerges unscathed, whether wisps wallow well within waddling wainscoting, willy-nilly or unauthorized by folly’s floozy emblems. She pickled dandy twirler bills, whittling teeth to golden sandstone tufa mutes, splashed in coldly catalyzed empties of onset exposure claws. Hats flew at stiff mustard flagpole locket box melt, passing for steadily secreting monuments of lonely movie starlet juice, pleading fifths of Krazy Glue in lockjaw’s variance before the bellbottom’s woozy boss, filched to igloo heat by antediluvian luge scenes. Pocked intangibles demote commodity praise to well-worn indemnity’s unsurpassed cough, echoed throughout Estonia’s ill-timed crony broth refusal, despite a strip club’s ringing pheromone retrieval spigot.

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.

Bahama Penpal

by John Pursch

Penelope she love to cauterize foolish gerbil breath, straight from hierarchical effusion of hometown elders, spittle sizzling between trotting wreaths in old-time eulogy for punctual sameness and canned accretion’s junkyard deterrent filth. 

She waddle down country room’s stereotypical malaise, feebly humbling dateline injector with aerosol acclivity’s acclamation: “Hayseed O’Reilly in autumnal glaze of greater coattail surprise! How comes ye to venerated toolbox quotation pith, wristing balky butt shingle past pulled-off shirt stopper? Wan yankers lust for bubble-headed phasing fall, wishing whole extra basement boxcar brothel coulda culled a barracuda’s lagoon snap hot dog from penal traceries in knee sock profusion.”

Bahama Matt trolls up in cyclical scattershot whack motif, grieving overhead loops of thundering slyness, famed for trauma pajamas in a Youstun flea bag. “Infested traitor rap emerge you parasitic flatfoot degradation myth, tarrying lewd Penpal,” he swallows bitter unguent from sandbar deluxe inveigling kit.

“Wad ye goiter goner getting’ me waypoint stew, Bland Hambone Mutt? Aye-eye, surly ask a skewin’ skewer fur trample, chest ye sorely err! Spay haughty my wheeze, hefty canoe wad’s goober far ya,” Penelope admonishes the swaying mastiff.

“Oh, the landlocked rabble hast mulch to lurch, spatial flaunt the legs homey,” Matt replicates in singular derision. “A freighter’s none lunger brewing; hat’s furling awning  noun!”

“Exultant hover joyous peduncular venomous dry goods, shooting callously drown tease ivory Terran Hoax alleyways, slides aweigh in cumin drop solution quaff,” she sidles on black, gifting hem broth apparel in doubtful foreskin overload.

Bahama tucks and rolls to ashcan repeater breech, furnishing zippity dew line concordance to the blackout. Phrased daze emote from gaseous galoot recordings, waxing entire city blog blackened toothy laughter soldered to holstered revolution’s eternal yell: “Wahooooo!!!”

Leggy wolves immerse in newbie forest stranger gearshift nodule sweat, flexed in six-shooter wingspan, hover black on thermal carousel of cobalt sky insecticide, halting rodent entrails in tracked fever. Gecko freezes time roulette on brick wall counter lapse, dancing stillness shifting mobile climes in distant dairy steam proclivity for wasted gash sojourn.

Penpal reloads from loafer brood, slaking chorus meows down diagonal hose aspersion, shaken to filial beat relief. “Bete noire, conjuring hep raptor from skied lime, witty outer Piltdown dumpling of a building in situ.”

“Wed, coupled mints frame yo-yo palace?” Behemoth Mutt he’s shamed wattage, habitual surmise, tabby sorely.

“Wheedle, haven icon seize a monument, spatially wand hit’s bane plushly posh, sewn direly endured the hardened soil of tea time operations. Chary isthmus attic forelocks may fuel hand my species, pet aisle stall espy putative botulism hand adore it,” she tumbles on, sledding town-to-downy hairline.

Fukushima #4

by John Pursch

My memory has been dismembered. There is no longer a flailing of farces, a chattering of teeth, a fueled imbroglio of wanton emblems. The icons of six o’clock news have receded into the countryside, along with full count pitchers of rice paddies, photos of a lost gazelle, and placemats to be framed in a wild and wizened lineup of causal circumspection. All that remains of the Panic of ’87 is the dusty rag once owned by four presidents, now hopelessly on display next to a dozen pallets of whisk brushes. 

Referential integrity ceased to obtain after the fall of Fukushima #4, swirling into paused idiosyncratic dubiety; all without a titter, a meaningful sigh, a cataract of phosphorescent malingering outside donut shops near you. Pentagonal starboard snowfall continues unabated, filling the gunwales with iced chaff and old newsprint, pickled in fine dusk. Onsets of opinionated release appear, vacillate, and slink into cold closets, yearning for herniated police. The only constant is the scudding glow of slo-mo cloud, sputtering from blowgun eruption stilts just over the horizontal listing sea. 

Modular hickory smoke still rises from the motu, revealing burnt catamarans, echoing nocturnal cries of hypnotic pheasant herders, huddled deep in solitary traceries of doubt. It is as though time has finally lost all meaning, though this would be far too simplistic a statement to hold any stale water. We know very little, but what remains of our canned convictions is killing us. So we keep on spraying the clock with aerosol belief revolvers, bent on sad regret, achieving duplicitous remembrance of module flint bicuspid erasure, molded in stone and concrete. 

Now I see through the purple plastic of empty cartridge, to newly blushing fossils of teenage expectations, groping each utterance for purchased redemption in quick sure steps, solid handiwork, and fluid beats of heartfelt joy. Doubled over in pleasure, ecstatic electric ejecta becalm the humming racetrack with greying houses, busted planets separating sunrise infidels and nervy dolls in greenish gauze. 

I realize of course that if I inject this last remaining green capsule, there is no turning back from hell-bent empties of pop-top fibrillation and spinning mornings of downtown soup canary coffee mugs on old abandoned carousels of horse guffaws and slackened linearity’s pejorative oomph. But all is foregone, especially the frozen shake of impending inky stairwell echo, fall of metal gunship blaze in cooling sheath of anchored nostalgic grief, pushing overt cattle, glimpsed in charismatic truncheon swaths of neural muon baths.