July 2, 2014

<i>July 2, 2014</i><br><br><br>


by John Pursch 

He like warm water port o’ call girl,
leans back on squeaky time machine
suspended animation bridge,
contemplate expensive rig of dashboard
wall-clock dirigible construction goods,
measured in ego facemask chips
off soldered moldy gelatin fix.

She giggle sideways, shuffle target plugs,
reveal ace of candy stripling lung mechanic,
wizened haircut all flexible from dirty sky
jump chimpanzee aesthetic, meant for
corn town bezore reduction kids on
placid holiday conundrum quiz
for sipping uncapped femurs.

Leading lollipop simpers at floral lesion breakout vest,
conceiving hourly human excrement patrol:
“Whad’ya drink we gather nightly optional
estrangement on estuary beach flotilla fur?”

Wexely he just spit out muttered toothpick,
spilling triggered bait erasure in quantized
hump of camel leap, blotchy shot zinging
over cackling prostitutes to line of lingo
slingshot credit scar seduction, shorting
into paid area bridge of moat collection myth.

Blue flotation pimp erects sad monument to
diagrammed emphatic leaves: “Hominy comedy
saw-monkey grease fish wanderer you sink ewe
gutter emote for antsy misgiven sunny daze,
sputtering Wexely?”

(A truly challenging explosive yeast,
heifer tare severed twas done.)

“Howsome you shriek in spare encyclical
wavefront jabber, surlier-than-spouting primper?”
Wexely swipes, preaching unto hissing buckets
for gloating gut-shot.

Dispensing turbaned rubble, pimp relax:
“Hay-hay! Are oh hell hey aye-aye
the essence of lorry hell! Chest calm
yer shelved hounds hund tape antsy of
mine fieriest girls; Glady Gratis fur exemplar,”
waving diamond hand at promissory flesh
of finest remake quality.

Gladiola (erstwhile Glad-he-ater, part
cordoned snake tamer, part elven mastiff)
spurts the Reading Room she-males, delivering
the Choosy Juans to loaves ever-lusting, via
adequately aquiline aqueducts of following
tear guns, chattering mental droplets from
both barrels.

“Q-wide empress hive, ideally most admit,”
Wexely croaks, dumping his sodden drawers
in excellent heap, flopping howdy doodle
yanker drop-stick soggy pajama act on
shunned expectorant fond lookers,
who now descend on him with
altitudinous farce-field stochastics,
plopping stump-function blahs strayed own
his supinely clogged esophageal pasture.

“Gack gurgle cudgle crackle wheeze…”

Pimp he wig at unsightly longing
for noodling cougar tendencies,
flashing stoolie grimy chatter teeth
from penitential airbrushed theater
to nooner sty deduction wisp:
“Sigh O’Hara, gut Hobie Cat o’ noun towels,”
singing in reigned bubble cum flatulence

to sinkage in flurried western latitudes.

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