Friday, March 2, 2012

text || John Pursch

Dorsal Dreamscape

Staggered by neglect, pinned to banyan roots by hampered canes and hissing moral legions, martyrs plan a demigod’s last spatial hurrah, jamming quaint floral petticoats with tumid, sheer delights. How quietly the evening gowns for surgical balls, flipping quoits for gals galore, grasping at gallons of locked dominions. Stethoscope pinholes matter to the chosen feudal barometer, lopping off strafed entrees in a rutted winter lane. Static breathes an ignoble watchword, spiking a glorious phantom’s worn hernia with smooth, organic Nerf control, splicing loose piranhas with coiled copra pinnacles, hovering beneath the bell socket. Zooming springtime salmon jump for salted, kneeling pinafores, pressing joyous rodeo clowns for just a smidgen of rote arrest. Desk-bound cultures hammer honor into phased concrete, stacking germ platoons in mock assemblies, aging the beef turret’s simple waterline, trimming a dorsal dreamscape. How nimbly the youngest tutu curtsies in midnight’s fading glance, graphing grace along an axeman’s sable floor.

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