Mudflat Closets
Arpeggios of faucet news, inhaled by foolish soldiers, work away at newfound thoughts of stacked dominion’s cemetery paste, pinning lurid histories to floor show antiques. Broken queue compartments fill the plenitude’s respiring girth with ill-begotten somersaults and gainers dipped in heavy salt, trickling through enveloped trains to gingerbread trauma sinkage. Loosening didactic pennies from a cardboard savior’s vaulted brace, the backstreet beckons to sunlight’s hazy cure, resonates with plural dockside chatter, and replicates suburban yields of soggy daisies, sentient chairs, and omnipresent underlings, clicking epiglottal hoppers for an amber litter’s psionic felt-tip kitten. Up the fluted passageway, tomographic welders flee the scent of almond furor, pounding boomtown sheiks with quaint amphibious beliefs. Ripening softly in mudflat closets across the grated siphon’s plausibility field, children regain saliva with beechnut simplicity, crossing vernal tenderloins with tipsy hurriers, molting into orchid vials beneath enchanting lampreys. Tomes surmise in porous silence, grafting conked allusions to unprotected sparrows, gifting leitmotifs in offhand delicatessen shoots. Terminals leap embargoed truths, skating down stylized cinnamon bonds to valentine moons, orbiting dissolving postcards. Sacks converge on individual iterations, damping extraneous neutrons into carload trays, casting breaded chicken feed to gulag inexpedience. Habitual corpses write off crafted carrier gaps, lending amorphous stoners to another streetcar’s brachial cloister. Yelping cod bubble up in sentimental fistulas of logical pond cremation, washing into ropy calm.
Fizzy Laughter
Mavens grow, stow away on lullaby yacht connections, and transfer sleepy cabbage into wholly straddled parakeets, craning global nectarines at waggling wings. Elevators plunge from next-door louvers, longing for a strident ransom, settling into basement soup and causeway sterility. Humbling a pegboard perpetrator, comatose sectarians play the mumbo-jumbo groan at twenty times the jet stream’s statutory pace, lacing tourmaline with comic lime, hefty and lagging in eight-ball blues. Saved by bowling trios, carnivores exceed illegal haddock at emery villages, nurturing a regal stallion on ciliated presence. Neighborly sprites comb the sock hop for breadcrumb spew, chewing till the prudes come home. If only dextrose had ruled with ironic fistulae in temporary origins, as loggers were taught to bereave; then thermal canned munitions might’ve morphed into differential Turks and instance dwellers could’ve looked alive at seeding rapture contests, divesting roaming rawhide oafs of thermoplastic munchkin tools, in time for summer’s tidal wash. Between a chalky plush surprise and goulash gals in bodice groups, our tasty destined kneeling feed became a cyclic wonton’s newly christened plight, dazzling us with prescient films and cereal toucan canes, lazing in the month of maypole ritual days. Kaleidoscopic stereos ignore exalted pirouettes of cave motifs and turtledove gazettes, enlisting faraway geysers to simulate a laboratory monkey. Drogue chutes entrain our wildest emblems of fueled theatric myth, mourning full-speed into nocturnal emissary tunes, played by voluptuous stamens. Evening settles into dusty miracle wolves, baying at an actuary’s cheesecloth toupee, rendering palatial pardons in kazoo clefs. Knots withstand a severance knoll, implying woolen daubs of gravity scotch, pelted with potato icing by cadaverous caterers. Mule team ramparts exhort a bladder climber to spare encrusted melons, fortifying fusiliers for frenzied French fajitas, factoring gherkins in partitioned op-ed bits. Wells pop, spilling fizzy laughter, gargled by pneumatic newlyweds, fencing for impacted endocrine release. Fluids fly, farming out form-fitting overalls for overhauled kneecaps in nativity plumes. Aging waifs assign insignias to iliadic coaxers, scooting historic mumblers down the sodden gangplank, truthful spearmint notwithstanding.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has appeared in The Camel Saloon, Counterexample Poetics, experiential-experimental-literature, and elsewhere. His fiction piece “Watchingstoned, T.V.” was recently nominated for the Sundress Best of the Net 2012 Anthology. His first book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks . You can follow him on twitter at http://twitter.com/johnpursch or on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/john.pursch .
