texts that change the conscious parameters of literature, both for readers and writers. from a different angle than these, r.p. blackmur adds: 'poetry: [is] ...language so twisted and posed in a form that...it adds to the stock of available reality.' now that blogger has included the ability to reproduce fonts more accurately, alpha-numeric visual-poetry will be welcomed for consideration. formerly edited by peter ganick. send texts to matt margo at firstname.lastname@example.org for consideration...
Monday, December 24, 2012
poems || John Pursch
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.
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.