Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Three Poems by John Pursch

Manitee Tarantula Pants

Ovations sit atop the cabinets of origami dictionaries, lining floozy paraphernalia in gearbox cramps, asking floral pastries for skillful etching techniques, properly auxiliary.

Tens emit urging shoulder squeals, grossing timid gavels amid laborious Gaelic tenterhooks, fleshing into cooly held privation's foreign pounders.

Pineal sleaze slakes our filial trust release, blushing at shrieking glades of hornswoggled youth in passe sundries, unshelved by univocal pastures.

Cartwheels effervesce in postal dunce chemise, contradicted daily by mammaries of brotherly injections, craving tenderloin pages when evergreen Epsom halters shop for wounded sapphire.

Prunes age till despotic antics vacillate beyond sequential hedgerow rebuttal's butane carrying kit, humming hymnal overtures in triplicate.

Mainsprings defy a slumping tributary, careening through gasket ears to fulminate in piecemeal quietude, sneaking past presidential tonsure in manitee tarantula pants.

Nightstand Debutantes

Barking clouds limp gingerly across a skewered highlight meal's electronic faucet train of silvered sedition aerodromes, cutting to blackballed erudition's sisterly plover reel.

The surgeon's demographic purge to gut swans of purloined sulfur reduces qualitative palliative choirs to barometric free-for-alimony bubble blowers, listing in the lasting cataract's verdigris.

How filled with hounds and watered foundlings, this neuropsychiatric melange of flowing lab coats, cratered Danes, and morphed Sephardic wonders of omitted childhood's pungent breath!

Havens respire in shaky sextant moos, filching cow town catchphrases from praiseworthy prairie bogs, filtered into cipher sieve marines.

Cropping obstetric gofers, rawhide remainders remand atypical slugs to cauterize imploding wind police, huddling in a glacine montage of airy benevolence.

Clippings depict annular rotation wriggles of anaerobic nightstand debutantes in seedy beefy clubfoot sandwich shop oregano mistakes, spoken hourly before schematic pundits wash voluminous infatuation from effrontery's puissant synchopated shimmy.

Dimes bring fashion mimics to streaming stain tar's humble spelling sea, still defiled in soupy ciliated kinship's eternal umbrage, but billowing doubtful esquire destiny's pedestrian motif in clods of specious tumbrels.

Hats wear off, revealing hazy pairwise smooth encapsulated insurrections, stunning diaphanous encephalopods with tanned soliloquies.

Sternum Traitor Underwear

In light of day we see greener parity's fruitful pomp, dabbling with ursine shallows of postulated turpitude in personal sagacity's stern tilings.

Exclusionary camaraderie loops from stein to porous luminal breastplate, dousing axial cotter pins with frugal gestation comas, remanding slanted epigrams from tinted leisure's pulsing hominy critter police.

Nomination pits crow in silky distaff coughs of scoundrel scheming, traipsing through calumny's worsted swells to satisfy paternal lunges with hammer schlock and shrapnel coinage.

Satin seethes amid ecstatic cameos of infamy and gradual reset, focal points anointing garrulous cravers with destiny's sown chalice of Benedictine sleepover sauce, compounded into trolley bliss.

Raiding high-bar seamstress cabarets, glossy-voiced parolees sweeten amplified adjudication with cufflink locker noose allotment beaks, cabling expired pardons under transpiration's imminent perusal.

Watching amply generic saucer fish turn sadly hemispheric dishes into beastly cobra salesmen, entitled croquet teams abbreviate an ovoid Ferris steeple with trunk line cavalcades of sternum traitor underwear, borne by nocturnal matchmakers to seasoned hills of unattended domicile distraction glyphs.

Venial swallows tree amazing slingshot mice in easily deformed magenta corpsmen, sanding easement cleft tornadoes into snivels of colloidal abridgement geese.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona.  Nominated for Best of the Net in 2012, his work 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.

Monday, February 17, 2014

A Poem by ayaz daryl nielsen

eleven things about wet noodles that everyone should know:

     -- a six-year-old nicknamed Chuck-a-muck often drapes wet noodles over his 
     ears (when his mother isn't looking)

     -- Chuck-a-muck's sister Maria doesn't drape wet noodles over her ears

     -- Thor didn't eat wet noodles as a kid (Odin and Elvis did and still do)

     -- every wet noodle is first cousin to all other wet noodles

     -- wet noodles give boa hugs

     -- dry noodles sometimes hesitate before accepting boa hugs from wet 
     noodles (but never regret it afterwards)

     -- unintentionally stepping barefoot on a wet noodle means good luck

     -- unintentionally stepping barefoot on several wet noodles means a gooey foot
     (but in a between-the-toes goody sort of gooeyness)

     -- wet noodles are allies of wet beeps, drippy faucets and poets with writer's 

     -- wet noodles -- so cool when hot!

     -- and hot because we're always  so  cooooool!

     and we wet noodles (us) of every where/when/how/dampness thank you
       for reading (and appreciating) eleven things everyone needs to know ...
                                               about wet noodles!

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs) and x-hospice nurse, is editor of bear creek haiku (24 + years/116 + issues), his poetry's homes include Lilliput Review, Yellow Mama, Verse Wisconsin, Shamrock, High Coupe and Shemom, he has earned some cherished awards and participated in worthy anthologies -- his poetry ensembles include Concentric Penumbra's of the Heart and Tumbleweeds Still Tumbling, and, in 2013, released an anthology of poetry titled The Poet's of Bear Creek -- beloved wife/poet Judith Partin-Nielsen, assistant Frosty, and (translates as joie de vivre)