Saturday, December 24, 2011

3 poems || John Pursch

Chain-Link Horizon

Turning to omnivorous, craven wishes, we find an evening of final spangles and sloe-eyed hypodermic trenches, burnt deep in the tundra, sacrificing random indemnity and flying beetle parades. Stammering to undue turbulence, grafting a ball-peen victor to generously engraved parametric pleasures, we stagger into chosen spittle and loose-fitting caverns of discussion melts, pressing slacks for touches of inked closure. Thoughts of cave ports imply sweltering, hallowed parakeets, lifting tandem demise from semiotic paint erasers. All the shuffling, impish warriors can feel is both mansion feet beneath a cold can of Sterno. Heads bob wistfully on a chain-link horizon, chambered and cocked for backstreet pauses, refurbishing the sunlight.

Con Men

Lights flicker through glycerine ponds, signaling the diamond pack to pick off a loathsome straggler, stripping him clean of all pretense, emptying their last idea on his drooling, consequential ears, shaking a collective head into the leering, camera-eyed dusk. Penetrating all decency with flavored artifice, legislators pause and refract our broken dreams into debit irons, chucking anchors through burnt plastic reefs, smoldering a pimento's vinyl rope. Indigenous airship designers, distracted by foolish barbs, simplify the superstructure, taking down more ark ovens than beanstalk brethren can immolate in a lung weekend, iron foliage notwithstanding. Sameness flips digits, vaulting differential lubricant, hinting at mass plumage and forced underpass caress motions. Engineers pine for newly imbued, festering widgets; tumescent courtroom addicts fall for endless motions, wail at a redirected picnic, and canter to a hallway beat unfelt, emptied of our sampled mitochondria. Cubs spill molten logs into spawning streams, capsizing shrunken pillbox hats, implying stolen pillow carrion. Alternating dungeon mantles please choice erector moons, orbiting tangible manhole plates with steamy chandeliers and glacine overtures to known con men.

Boolean, All-Girl Rhythms

Flex me, anterior calling bard, pining for disinfectant. Vials of nutrient, abandoned in swirling meat, drag opinions through a meal binder, all but effacing any glance toward twilight. Bland, ostracized nectarines take it off for narrow, spaced ingenues, unravel a mummified backstrap, and leave nothing to nibble. Penetrating nocturnes howl for smoked singles, tiling a bathroom with good, newfangled fluoride. Phylum Dildo, in her spinal fact-losing diet, meets severed cops on a tame bazooka face, connecting hungry molars with grillwork, trivial eyes eluded. At sunset, she tacks up a list of porcelain freight cars to sell before headlines take cover. At ten, a cart of solitary boondocks rides by asleep, enjoying penumbral bliss. Ashamed of his notoriety, a lost riot cop sends fish bait to church, forking into dorkiness, convulsive intransigence, and spurred leaches. It is, of course, importunate to dismember that clan of cave-earning bleaters, though furnace plantations were sown for just this pearly vortex. Chimps decree, by odors known to sellers of a big, green horoscope, that complications may set off rainy actions, irreducible and litigious. Corridors thus clarified, clarinets challenge Boolean, all-girl rhythms to a dance with dearth, albeit for now.

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