Saturday, April 18, 2015

3 poems || John Pursch


Car doors slam
to interludes of
interjected heroines

the rabid self-majority
of wayward waybill
carriers culled

from nightfall’s lost
impending rhythm
of vast neglectful

in sepia
and solid gold

Crash Couch Limestone

“All a stoolie-slighted mainspring
could ever hope to aspire to
is a wooden galleon hatch
of emerald falsetto plumes,
lifted deftly from any pestilential caravan
of slubbed silk martyrs in subway mirth,
caprice beneath intended shame.”

This, of Corsican mealtime blush,
was uttered by a mixed and tattered
soldier of farcically stunned perennial
loaf-pinching gazetteers,
who trolls the skinny contrail set
for stewardess contestant meat
in pilfered contagion stew
on steamboat amplitudes
of heretofore unfounded
socket news and duly breaded
mace facts, pinned arms,
and cored retaliation blobs.

Time stores sold their ivory wares
in collocated colander sauce,
flipping cylindrical salamanders
in beveled devil’s fountain flange cake,
served hypothetically
to chunky waitress fodder
in simian crash couch limestone.

A Locomotive Sneer

In fonts of cabbie wisdom spewn
to backseat listening devices
masquerading as human fare,
how flecked with sweat
the horse’s flanks are.

Teetering junkies rule the cities
with uncrossed eyes and dappled tees
and smoldering indoor campfires
and turbid lupine vestiges
of brawny anterior shame.

How roped and tied to
feathered bowel constriction
the hopelessly oppressed
symbolic mastiff is!

The stovepipe heresy
of postal mad hattery
appears to overtake
all historical enterprise
in the quicksand broth
of a locomotive sneer.

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