Monday, August 10, 2015

3 poems || John Pursch

Two Sworn Shadows

Flying aunts
slake fleeing nones
from snow-ply cones
to fashion hull
in nude pall
guillotine concoction
craze horde jubilee
of termagant breasts
gonged shock o’ latte milt,
farce bequeath the frozen
seaside scapulas of backstroke
business bulgers gargling
ribald venture servants
of perspicacity’s woozy peacenik,
ponding escapades in sloth aphasia’s
steamy junket ankles.

Whereabouts canoe bay pun
pinted bye fund bygone pie
indie skewed in jawline huff
tarantulas nod in two sworn
shadows of slattern Americon
gravel drain to dungeon
placard sandwich oar.

Hot Blue Desk

On a hot blue desk
in a desert land of faraway elves
and nearly empathic wolverines
tied to mixed missives
of frank incendiary collisions,
saucy tempestuous cygnet queens
pawn sliders for curvaceous tumbling
gentlemen on high retreat
from mass confabulation rifts
of ritual antler wanderings and
dormant caballero basement trysts,
quelled annually in shipping languor’s
choice abridgement gullies.

Lungs incense the wading fallacies
of frontal lineage imposters,
pointing social demitasse infusion kites
at kitchenettes of goblin ad cetaceans,
logged to stumpy air
with hyphenated hieroglyphic
aerial comportment briefs
in jumpy neurologically
salacious agony pellets,
found to be securely frosted.

I’d forgotten all about
the simmering aqua shelter dues,
the balanced amoebic sedentary flush
of trundling headgear antiphon
and praying mantissa abscess rights,
curled slowly into crossing pardons,
peerage itch, and semolina helm reports.

In Cornball Evanescence

Thunder scavenges the closet
for brownies in locomotive ocean caves,
nested softly within flush cargo suites
of darker chalk erasure tracery accusal fellows,
searched in frisky counterpoint allusion rituals
by hovering secretions of our flopping ghoul’s
tenacious bedbug.

Bean pods fall in sunbreak gusts,
enveloping grammatical rapacity
with knockwurst ad credentials,
splashing idly tendered plastic
echoes in spherical babes
of peach blinker almond scenes,
slipped casually into a sidling pocket’s
picayune defense.

Ivy goes lucky,
casting her towline deep
to sodden tetherball asperity,
plushly guzzling wired finery
through stanched collation
beak approval jetties
of a beachball banquet’s
blond bemusement,
bonked at philanthropic
stereoscope surrender settees,
inclined for just the most atypical
of petrodollar Paraguayans.

Still the sun obtains,
blasting freshly stellar swimming bindles
of unmentioned blissful bullhorn stew
in gaseous mesmerizing gloat
of camphoraceous shelf pining,
saved by lobby bell-plop boys
for any of a thousand indentured
phase depiction ceremonies,
bound for generated viewpoint curls
of endless airhead cemetery rows
in cornball evanescence.

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