Saturday, February 11, 2012

3 texts || John Pursch


Helluva jump she made, tabular in its ebony wheelhouse blues, springing to basement allies and bobbing Scotch loadies, mouthing semi-sweet noodles to a mottled crowd. Large events, spun with oxen toward critical foals and cellular flare guns, emit a heavy vivid snarl at pasty bygone motorcars, scenting the cool skyline with cash. Whoever kneels before a sceptered balustrade shall wield donut mangers for hefty centuries, bagged in golden heat. Crenellated doormats lease arterial buttons to flow models, grappling for a frozen armchair’s whimsical ottoman. Empirical deference pins the trusty gasoline can to lipid demolition squads, handing over broken frescoes to manatees on parade. Queequeg knows internal routing bliss, deeply fraught with bluesy, holistic shavings of totem wheezes and lineage turrets. Spun to grazing divisors, envisioned rumors simplify a woozy chamber pot into clucking gravy, pent down and chattering brazen disregard for the pawn.

Gouda Ghirl

Argaton das aturaxy,
plent von uber ket
unscratchen die wailentie
moutard caramer tebild.

Metzen nought outen alonie
et extermon anomie extronium etherbox,
bocce bochtonial uxiuxi tournable ket
souper flon choudle.

Gouda ghirl, she wristwhockles
mein spansular, spurtling ouch
a klean hisprockie jammy top porty spooner.

Oox, she knobbles wethine brestodem,
prawnsy lech a fusin cumbermaid’s
artenial aspurtence beehoulder,
hemercholdin te yer rectup
shinnblone makerfelt.

Nebbamint ollyoll drat storielineal montrilash;
wie habbadabba muchomastie prexoglassy
tournicatchy phloatin phrasie
quattro-hazen multicoulin
heteraxim scroodle.

Dost yeye splay schoonle droolam whoople,
einer bleatch from ze lebens rheumy keep?


And so we flow, a thundering bustle of germinal, rendering mice; another enactment of conscious concision, in teeming and baffling bevies of bronzed bathing bodies and senses enraptured with wrestlers and juggling swords; with fertile encumbrances, childhood elites, and paramours dripping in gold. We, who are we, to think that we think, to hold a belief or ten million at once, to stagger and blather and claim to know anything, denying our role in the sure desecration of everything one might conserve, to recklessly gamble and fight… Rubles spent on nested geese and dollhouse wrenches, stained with ivory carrots and moot, vestigial ramparts, hover breathless and secure in the Kremlin’s sallow courtyard, shedding plastic holograms of famous facial tics. Autonomic intestines motivate a billion fumbling fingers to clean salty feet with larded, philanthropic gestures, dilating potted poultice pourers, flipping clarinet rompers in a drastically prosaic whiff of puerile recompense. Submarines itch each oven’s scabrous locomotive, heading off a station chief’s cryptographic inkling, dumping barrels of boy baubles into the Bering Sea. Augurs wheedle for safety prawns, shimmying up a molting sparrow’s lost leggings, trampling a tornado’s tenebrous tourniquet at dawn. Neophytes enable their otter’s juiced mentors, inviting atrial eyelashes to dine on plywood jumpsuit designers, hobbling the swollen wheat trade. Flowering beauticians deploy drained orchids, rooting for hydrophones in a bottle of sea salt salami. Crash testing continues, despite musky engagements, defying Napoleon’s pineal decree, sending loopy entrees to kiosks for carnival tea. Ogling ale emptiers ingest English endives in a voluntary backwash trial, pining for residual tutelage. Transmissions earn nougat plaques, spangled with crooning streamers, humming avian watchwords for the mastiff. Preternaturally sifted markers drift from cause to rapid denouement, pleased by interleaving world processions, sampling subconscious fruit trays. Ranches steeped in mesa debris sigh a lassoed relief map’s casual key, spiraling into galactic contrail soot. Meat market mincers mock marital metronomes, masking momentary miscues, mercifully muting more meritorious mementos.

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