Monday, December 24, 2012

poems || John Pursch

Oo Charble

Brotillion hamil intruplier flom
cortenogular frintial sleber xeoph
minsoacle jamofio erdgeliot eltch
septa phluvial crontioch saphen
pron orchie ermel.

Herphilon tungier spatchel marienz
routabin chocktarl ergameten phleice
quen souchle earocktio tessonie jaroub
ecrestian whorple ulation smatchule.

Stelmfein leekiet zubli fromal quon, 
geftal craemiest who obel trincie phomous. 
Estoin, plen rhousium ghrotae ariosp hoddel, 
oo charble ertomiqual protspar blorn, 
eros ploture trouph argy.

Christmas Eve

Pleading no contest to primal dream canopy, choral waifs parade half-nuked, peddling a buxom bombsight to the pensioner’s pet swoon. Santa pauses, leering at a stoppered spine, lapping chocolate talismans through cappuccino teeth. Harkening to an olive whistle, tussling wonderkids wrench embodied moans from brown toroidal samovars, trying on a zebra. Shot-glass punditry impugns imported palates, gaveling the huffy norm to silent perfidy, sipping coiled winter from highway toddies. Kneeling bevels fulminate at crowing miters, smocked in training peerage, couching crooked urges in waistband motor clefs. Abbots shower in shoeless laundries, temporize for scheduled craters, and whisk acorn tumidity along escutcheoned fiefs. Extra bellies fuel the hooting operatic peace, sanding off egregious embers, giving hiked soothsayers a swaggering diorama’s steely perdition. Oodles of cisternal eyes roam the comma-clovered pews, auspicious in their yawning trench balloons, tippling when the gable leans to loincloth queues. Dotted tinder lifts a thousand calibrated wobblers, chafing doused immersion’s topiary splint. Oddly extant Greeks, immune to terse idiom, glut the churchyard carousel, vivid stable notwithstanding. Graves mumble openly, grout assumes inertia, and ankhs falter as prophesied, glopping into huddled pates. Martyrs lap deterrent gauze, testing dethroned comets for richly furtive tensile broth. Torpor skims immortal lassoes, propping up whirled geriatrics, dimmed to shovel prints in sawdust.

Cowlungen Haffenbien

And throweth bay no quetine straygone, 
fence histion plon founie quenchstot, 
grast dermontibule colistumon who gockle 
plon oupen ergamo phielt septen chod. 

Spouple cantodook wrexium 
fregutar orchamion fielt, 
spodgle unspeiter when ouckiot 
crogspa berallet flomaner 
arkotch hoodgle glomp.

Cowlungen haffenbien martumial 
unglentine prenchour flox, 
quabulio hemcit renoc effrugio 
elanty weduncie orm. 

Eistublar gom sengarium hoxerlum, 
plongen oustied lermonten crouf helge 
montonious chusogs elvem alitophile carionots, 
plede lomo nocterder aiphilian cromtian arge. 

1 comment:

  1. These three poems by John Pursch each have their own unique sounds. The "strange" mixture of linguistic origins (Latin, German, Irish Gaelic, and English, etc.) in the first and third poems reminds us that we all speak in a world of language. These language creations, in their obvious incomprehensibility, show us the profound truth: Language is never the thing itself. Language is never the truth. It can only point to the truth, which is always beyond language. More to the point, language is "the great obfuscator" of the truth. That being said, these poems are lots of fun, written by someone with a sense of humor, and a very good perspective on just how impossible it is to TELL the truth.