John Pursch

Downtown Loadie Tendons

Gongs dispel shyly enumerated rhythm owls,
crating assonance for sutured pulpits,
scurrying to spay appeasement’s
warren of deviled peace.

Squalid temblors designate
backboard stun gun kits
for creed defilement porphyry,
axing wizened sinkers,
slaking womb retiree malefaction choirs
for spurned credentialed sailors.

Ursine stones cram ontic stelae
into baldly serenaded dipstick halitosis pets,
leased to erstwhile simians for pittance empties
under collared grains and airy oddities
in scolded chest serration planes,
frowning furiously at frost flotilla vowels
on stricken and starchy floes.

Asymptotic pressure clasps
a hidden handbag’s Pleistocene pomposity,
basting elastic fratricide in ceiling coitus
variance of aerial infatuation,
tickling her lined foil to festival hoorays,
huzzahs, and Cossack cheerio quartets
of yesteryear’s diurnal escapades.

Bony catapults shake residual chimps
to pallid prospects of perspectival itch roulette,
dueling into dawning queue reduction tricks,
erotic and imbued with flames.

Tires blur brightly beneath
the riding raccoon’s missing teepee,
blaring notices of softly pungent trade stalls,
hearse refusal demiurges,
and pump resection angst portrayal,
grappling spoken curry fields
with downtown loadie tendons.

The Candiru Kid

Spanish bubbles across the waiting room floor,
flecking repetitive tile with hallmarks of oaken yesterdays
and choice bits of bilingual cigarillo cobras,
checking outdoor incremental overalls
for casual motel wastrels in standing waterfall bulbs.

Shoppers evacuate with hands flailing at smithereens
of lonesome cordoned selfsame shimmying
down exclusivity’s pejorative ice cream cinder cone.

The only door to outer glare
swings into auctioned sofa sink,
accepting the bulging bollocks
of atypically regenerated cellulite discourse,
cloven from green groceries and
preener-laden celebrity hose-alike
workhorse outhouse plunger blues
in balled styrene.

Excelente, que bueno!
Martita flashes perfection insignia ad hominem
via handheld x-ray bosom extremity socket
whoop-de-blanching smile
to rosary checkout swirls
in tendencies of puerile mirth,
deep from sordid aquamarine eyefuls
of pulchritudinous amplitude,
calmly held in savory dazed songs
of classified yesteryear’s
technological baking shoulder.

Eggs roll in pluralized fedora fling around a hotly infected
soup deflection moth’s baleen filtration system,
forked from noontime aerial inception betrothal
to overhanded air charge javelin perusal.

Consequential heathens behave behind missed unction drip
in icy canticles of soothing mood-swing pepper spray,
enhanced to thigh-res plugboard oxen.

Curtailed knowledge sees your fifty praises
as false lozenges of singularly distraught pickup sleights
of handy mental tachometer cons
in asymptotically unaware bowling villas.

The importuning dodderer has tipped
legato turtle shuffle shift machines
for lewdly bumpy tater droids
in shanty peanut torso sauce,
swung daintily by the Candiru Kid,
Gutter Clamp Ex-Mortuary Shale
Policeman Thirst Glass, all ashy smiles,
former All-Sweden Sour Encaustic Crazy Tailback,
wad couldn’t heat the barred side of a brawny brothel
with both boys buying shuttered lingerie
from famous hellhole hello girls
on lunatic infraction fringe
of hallway time zone
changeling counterpoint queues.

We Cannot Heaven

Moaning to adjust her feline semblances
of doctored hectare hound and missing
hind leg hinterland in utero de pablum,
she beams me barely cosigned tutelage
on garden plangency’s soft lake.

To disrepute’s repair of south Pacific island yore,
a paneled questionnaire must ease our nascent
wonderings of source and dusty defalcation;
who be done it, how we coulda ever heard
the chopped and splintered populace
in quiet cries of timed oblivion
to foolish frenzied overcoats
in maelstrom overflight and
cool unsightly disregard
for looming omens,
rich in coming traction
truck-stop gears of grease line
burger finitude atop a handheld
corridor to cookout crescent
caterpillar dotage stoops inside
an altered surgeon’s
biodegradable affair.

Scanning backyard swirls
we cannot heaven clump
the tinge of grain grass groceries
enough to bind receptive calling
curds in nested chary orifices,
trending into succor’s deeply
scoured reluctant vista.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. His pi-related experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
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