Wednesday, December 30, 2015

2 poems || John Pursch

Blurred Bucolic Freeze

A breath of factual air comes squeaking down from palisades of sumptuously misty valves, plopping newborn overlords in each of twenty oblong empty delegations to floral jungle symptoms, chugging off-whirled additives of phoneme federation flicks in rusty village swab return to uncanned city daydreams.

Cars fly by in cold-hearted grinning phase of lusty probation pleas, settling for random graveyard lines of facial ticking time-balm stew perusal nods to dialectic phonebook memoranda, licking encomia from raw philately.

“Prawn to ringtail hooky-splaying core,” Kabuki whispers into old savant of earphone peppercorn arrival stump, snowfall crazed behind a skyline whiz in sold serrated consequence of neural implant patient fees slid casually beneath a setting sun.

Anonymous automata smile bravely, churning outer orbitals to lewd electric density of plot purgation polity, damping massed enthusiastic cholera to stippled stem cell surgery replacement creed of lookalike contestant rinse in blurred bucolic freeze.

Whisking Lola

It all comes down to lightning, a bit of transmigrational delay, and expertise in temporary icon change from straying bobcat numbing sauce to hairline figurine replacement, turning vowels to verbs of crawl rotation split parade, pausing for an asterisk to form beside a record player’s seminal arcade of oddity in rarefaction’s timed belief.

“The light is dimpled, air on half auxiliary schism,” she reports in nameless disarray, unanimity intact. Syntactic wind encircles her, inflecting futuristic emblems of drawn bespattered dusty streets with careworn eyes of rundown hourglass perusal, stranding an entire planet in lucid noise.

I hear a distant majesty of equal voice ferocity, spun softly in the simplest alibi. She deftly slips tomorrow’s neural imitation scream to feral feedbag forelock soup of kitchenette implosion scoff.

“Codger that, wheeze a sloppy hovel by-and-byway fresco scimitar to pure enfolded nylon sleep,” comes scratchy but abruptly clear from statement of Authentic Whirling Western Slam, the lonely tower in this unpardonably obscure sector of trance-galactic megalopolis induction quarantine.

Slanting grates reopen skies of blackened coal dust eyes, flashing speckled cobalt iris wink from deepest meld to inmost cavity of fraught cacophony to mined mentality aflame, whisking Lola from identical effervescent vault of recognition blush to scintillating ecstasy.

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