Wednesday, July 31, 2013

An Experimental Haiku String by Kelley White

Morris’s Magnetic
Literary StuffonMyCat
            --for his beloved Feather
sleep smooth moment
she is chocolate
I lick her languid beauty
in love’s drunk rhythm
sordid worship
singing tongue music
I lathered her skin moaning
lie together love
forest moon symphony
shadow spring vision
please whisper sweet cool nevers
luscious goddess fluff
Pediatrician Kelley White worked in inner-city Philadelphia and now works in rural New Hampshire. Her poems have appeared in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Rattle and JAMA.  Her most recent books are TOXIC ENVIRONMENT (Boston Poet Press) and TWO BIRDS IN FLAME (Beech River Books.) She received a 2008 PCA grant.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Two Poems by John Pursch

Igneous Flax
Clothespins sigh in elephant tongues, angling for tingling grapefruit commotion, galloping through dressing hound spruce. Posh leeward punters unwind above rewarding coastal sinkholes, dousing blowhards in darning people skew. Cuffed interpreters crawl through butane cauliflower hoops, perforating civil teardrops, hugging blooper treads for starch demurral’s bony silhouette. Drainage taps on grumpy sandbar broccoli, weathering audacious cottage tendons with tambourines in plaid erotic pyromania. Zooming goats relieve disheveled Tudors of rifled aunts, masked in haltered sequins, prodding gibbous touchstones with seething cordite plumage umps. Hefty sounds revert to canned fare cards, lunch at creature troves, and copulate in rectilinear textile plunks, stringing upper pets on low-slung counter girl dunes. Should shoddy hazings precede emasculation’s durable delay, reaping sloping tributaries of ensemble sweat? Peep at kiting chuckers in every stoolie’s pregnant porthole, swapping arable salt for bailiwick breath. Car keys cloud the horizontal lice con, feebly hedging trebled sketches. Why do vowels deplane at voluntary codas, peeling blackened gourmands from estuary sleep, baying at precipitation’s shindig, chopped to candied leashes? Each magnified casing excretes seraphic signatures at tidal beagle safety sighs, projecting tin fallacies beneath orthotic salamander barns. Orchards reclaim swimming powder, frisking swamped sharks for deftly finned woolen placemats, repositioned in suction vats of incubating huffy dimples in tightly eradicated codfish, parsing premonitory omissions, yacking up astounding nickel frenzy. Genetic freezers hone usurper worms, stomping toffee into futile dreams of corn yodelers, trilling for found plaque, sudsy and uniquely brazen. Balk at extra hair nets, folding igneous flax in teetering seclusion’s defrayed insipid jukes, sopping up slung osteopaths in scaffold cries of chaste sclerotic Rastas down lifelong bandstand queues, drifting to empathic oceanic moons, fueled by chirping otters in castoff tracking loops. Jumbled up in mainland hammocks, croupiers pine for bubbled heroes, itch for cooly gravitating Andalusian tea, and chuckle uncontrollably at contrarian suppositories. Given showboating federal proctors, savory desk fakers stall imaginary pratfalls, covering the midriff air for nightly groaning socket spansules, hoping to remember coal gas gimmes before elective chatroom trolls respire. Ants can timidly minted knees, swallowing saber-toothed quail with zesty haunts of melodic bowels, recommitted to a scabrous palate’s skyward flop, drilling the feckless clown with ambergris dials, descending dryly. Curdled wainscoting solidifies in neural solution blots, leaching into building plans, sinking Masonic samples with longitudinal saxophones, roiling the brawny stevedore’s seminal benchmark glyphs, crashing meaning’s duly hashed parity.
Octopi Achoo
Vicariously voluptuous vivisection volunteers vividly veer over osculating omnivores, immolating indigenous sybarites in macadamized blue volcanoes, specially defanged for crestfallen privateers. Old slices of hockey paint flit from shattered igloos to lockjaw prevarication, umpiring latter-day spackle quartets in emery beards behind escutcheoned pelican motels, simpering in cured horseradish snuff. When cheery seizures hitch aridity to trawler drones, pegging porous radicands to equilibria from haughty pain, broomstick graters prop up Chippendale dunce cap mutes, peculating grocery phosphates from brittle punching surds, deflating nonplussed octopi in casting gall. Defalcation pinches off vainglorious illusion peat, sidles into trackball cuddling rakes, and injures semifinalists with beeline oven caricatures, spotting triangulated tomahawks from iffy shareware’s gluttonous laconic tarp. Cramming facile stampeders into open-jaw tureens, turbaned meat chaperones depilatory ladies from sheathed hump day balloons, lashing civilian replacement beaks to stripling barfly castanets, ushering southern fascists into part-time dropsy. Basaltic larvae peppers skyline groomers with barbaric punji hips, chucking winched factory shirkers into medial training spume, drowning simultaneity’s cushy moonlight scent. Followers defy respiring stubble, ignore a pleading altimeter, and captivate achoo figments, tackled in flesh powder. Clover spills from creamy jugulars, coating baton mergers with roadway harpsichords intoned by sagging corpse chelation, washing calcified fate down gullet-fired onset, shifting habitual criminologists to Queeg’s expository dirt. Sleeves feel withered cads till carbines gown and crow, covering alpacas from stevedore to spiny she-male. Does tuning mean tapered paps to caper dunkers, hexing scoffers with credible swine? If so, woozy heterotic stairways wilt because Hasidic music stings the hostile tampering tuba, crabbing over facial turnkey toil. Mainly cloven perennials grate polished childhood marmalade with lumping cod holes and shoreline salad hay, smiling at safecrackers in high-top sump retracement, plopping quintets in olfactory cement.
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His poetry and fiction has appeared in many literary journals. His most recent book, Intunesia, is available in paperback from White Sky Books at . He's @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.

Friday, July 19, 2013

A Poem by Sherry Steiner

ETIENNE (on the Riviera)
Be it French or Swahili the language of the dance was a mystery to Etienne. Symbols arranged in space, pure elemental patterns insignificantly sweeping overhead gave rise to the postulation of the ridiculous. But not to worry as the graphic passages verbalized strict content commands that would oversee elements in total control of the moment. The next day 6 mechanics dressed as marine merchants casually strolled down the pier with a monkey wrench in one hand and an anchor in the other. Pierre shuddered. How could this be? To pinpoint a moment, to make sense of a leap without the frog - nitpicking grammarians threw up their hands in dismay at the sight of the 6 paraphrasing cross shutter assemblies. Nineteenth century semblance of realism contributed to brilliant re-organization of amateur vacations on the Riviera . Etienne was stumped. In high fashion the blinding whiteness resulted in a silent blackness...