Sunday, April 22, 2012

text || John Pursch

Without a Sigh

Blown from seen to scenery in grails of gobbling crews, spewn crusties wax the seventy peas with circus raisins and loosened vowels, masking a maundering fellow’s juridical sentience. Who can tour celestial closets, streaming dusty oxen in feuding ambits of gentle frocks, collapsing into healthy water? Over clay cliffs and into heaving billows of sail, a clock hand tumbles from pendular ponds to crass, carbuncular windings, imprinting on woolen sockets and heated spiels, booting insensate flora through chips of solar myth. Ganging down the upstart blanks, fueling a nebulous cretin with spherical hordes, inflammable peelers impend, screeching on camera, shipping their tumid underarms to ports in unknown centuries, gloving theatrical motes of flotation gig release. Encumbered by speared fleet machines, a state-run lattice sings of saintly hovercraft, glimpsing a nascent felon, cropped entr’acte. Speaking in bent phonemes and rapturous keys, a flagrant suitor imposes wheeled oatmeal on hungry fielders, spinning popcorn into potato chip news. Blurred retainers mire in frozen onset crews, miffed at lackeys, thrown to lionized anodes of despotic churl. Inverted dots embarrass pointed clams with fuel transponders, tackling gypsy coolers, flapping tender grooms above an empty cry. Beaches fly by unadorned, grasping at newly fraught hens, handling under a sand-filled filet of filly cheese, rippling at the stake. Whey tarnishes ungainly crustaceans with dawning surmise, hooting at trusted deer cycles, hosting surly moptop platoons with vast iridium pleas. Tantamount to prized canyons, leggy dandelions defang disembarking dandies, wrenching peat from trackpad glue, returned without a sigh.

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