Saturday, January 23, 2016
2 poems || John Pursch
It was as simple as waking at an oddly comported hour, finding a suitable flare gun, and shooting all night at detuned ghetto tendons, missing indentured verisimilitude in oration’s storied lineal vacuum.
Even so, one out of every savory dovetailed sleep patrol would cauterize extorted swoons with lasered pinpoint straps of tippling’s exegetical numbness, piled in frozen autonomy, nominally fencing with epaulette mechanics for tendencies unknown to solvent junkies everywhere from hauled-catch miniskirts to lexical interment.
Nubian bellicosity wrapped tensile occasion grist in floating pillbox satyrs, passing sooty auditory mavens, hovering just above melting; pointed exclusionary billets daubed behind the midnight hearing’s foolishly pomaded croupiers on parole from seditious highland prayers.
A Thousand Weeks of Scenery
Children run in cowboy boots beyond empathic high school floors to hospital selection beeps and busty business sendoff screams of pardoned immunology.
Cousins swipe a Texan Mafioso in durable daylight, continuity pumping imprisoned gunslingers for leap years. Pleas denote the slackened gaze of passing pedestrian threads, shared by yesterday.
Somehow privileged wallflowers march to detuned martyr sauce, arms locked, boots alighting lachrymose and parried territorial in setting honey melt.
Fortune shilly-shallies into noontime lean of frozen facial focal length to fill a caustic factoid, hoping for songs. Blue eruption conversations bite in character for stone devotion marrow lines, feeding the exploding pen a thousand weeks of scenery.