poem || John Pursch

Chatterboxie

Brahmanic Mutt, telepathic dachshund, frantically runs from Easton She’s Bored to Nubile Coda’s Canned Avian flesheries, little paws flashing into light speed wink-out cloud of smoky faces, feline longings, and long days slumbering in sunshine status.

Past-life lucidity hints to Mutt of humbled human undercoat in karmic disrepair. “If only I could find a stash of slow-culled time-reversal drugs, revert to human status,” Brahmanic muses, carelessly sniffing piles in Contrail Park at end of leash-line daily walk.

“What’s this?” He’s vibing in on Shetland pony fantasies of one Chastity Chatterbox, high-heeled toy poodle owner, skipping shoddy memory to harebrained dreams to solid flicker of factoids in her addled mind, strangely relevant to Mutt’s own causal castanet.

Chatterboxie’s stream derails on: “…Sandoz Time Slippers from Dr. Croakitall… shouldn’t’ve taken so many… why my feet are disappearing… can’t even feel my boobs…”

Brahmanic vibes back, “No, honey, yer fine, nuttin’ ta be afraid of, yer perfectly solid and yer boobs look wonderful,” throwing in a friendly little bark, sidling up to her poodle, hoping for a little three-way, absurd as it may seem.

Tug along the leash, it’s vapid Chuck the dog walker: “Come on, dachsie, ain’t got all day.”

Brahmanic vibes him, “Dude, chill, you could get laid here if you just follow my lead.”

Amazingly, Chuckster catches on and soon Brahmanic’s poking around Chatty’s penthouse flat, amid grunts and shrieks of typical human foreplay.

“Come on, come on, where’s she keep the stash?” Brahmanic’s trying kitchen, bathroom, bedroom hideouts. “They’ll finish soon; chance of me being dragged along for any repeat encounter are marginal… ”

Relaxing, Brahmanic brainstorms, vibes to Chuckster: “Sex is so much better on time drugs and I know she’s got ‘em, all kinds!” What with ardent repetition, Chuck and Chatty are soon gobbling pills from assorted tumbling bottles on the nightstand.

“Reversal; reversal and time-slip,” Brahmanic intones. “By far the best. Head for some Sixties love pad orgy, you’ll get three-for-alls and anything goes,” sending the couple straight down the time chute in sizzling haze of soldered lingerie.

Brahmanic sniffs around the empty flat. “Let’s see, they’ll be gone for an hour or so. Can’t read any of these labels; just have to swallow every pill in sight and hope for the best. Here, eat these, Fifi,” hoovering up the rug.

Dogs dissolve in city skyline’s paisley dishpan underglow of cobbled moonbeam glaze and taut replay of timeline varnish overload to quantum buckboard plastic yore-slide quintic population trance.

Deep in dosimeter daydream, Brahmanic sloughs off feline lust, revealing serene juxtaposition of tugboat corridor locale and heavenly ape-kit costume parity, believing glossy souls and evenly spun electrons from simmering booze channel.

“Nod an udder dribbling camp edition, conned equestrian pallor drinking park or pumice Pollyanna praxis,” he moans in steady swirling breeze of time-slip chemical kin, tampering with hitched incisor metal man.

Fifi, aloe hung furtive rider, grappling to mainly stain her calm posture, wad this bean her foisted hedge peering hence weed time drugs and awl. “Wise ham eye nod able to bark oar growl? Mine lugs sheen mire alike my onus. Weight! Hammy now hand owner? Half sew, arse ewe mine dog?”

Brahmanic notice furtive foist dime data Fifi’s mate the chump along weed him to reverse human lime tine. Drinking vapidly, he counts her: “Fee-fee, ewer chest loaf lea, heifer sew spline. Yer jest a parson noun, an ink-ready-bleep utilized free male, at bat!”

Fifi smiles weakly. “Kiss aye joust groveled up two mangy hove dose peals off Ms. Chatterbox’ fallow oar. Fleein’ party queasy.”

“Nod two weary, Fiefdom, heat’ll ware huff swoon,” Brahmanic replies soothingly, unbuttoning her blouse. “Slammy loosin’ yer tarp; chest relax hand breed nominally.”

“Swear arse whee?” Fifi asks.

“Morey like Juan arse oui. Hide shave hit’s the laid Sexties, planet Dearth; sum ware in Nord Americon oar Myopia. Oui a pier two’ve slanted ride indie mettle oven orgy,” Brahmanic deduces. “Ether tad whore sheeple chest frock lie crab hits Constantinople.”

“Aye’d aft ooh argree switcheroo, Brahmanic. Wad’s data smog wa’s fleein’ varoom?”

“Hand hour lungs,” Brahmanic observes. “Hall moat spurting lea merry wanna; hit war ewes devil he piety heap eyes inch ta Sexties.”

“Oh,” Fifi contemporizes. “Oui batter pee carful nod tufa lamprey twosome udder snore powder full dreg hove da thymes. Far egg simple, sum sigh kid aleck.”

“Towel ate, high tinker,” murmurs Brahmanic, notice ink tea she link pea ginning two bauble hand cadge fire. “Dings her bay combing quiet lick weed…”