Tuesday, August 20, 2013

John Pursch- A Poem

Lung Island

MM-33 woke to the sound of Jack’s snoring. The lab was brilliant, morning sunlight streaming over uptown Madhatter. Her left eye caught the time from holographic ceiling: just after noon. Still no sign of Momo and Emily. Her right eye lay shut on JFK-19’s bare chest; rising, falling in lobotic sequence. Sounds of traffic filtered up from the street through open windows, warm summer air, smell of RFK cologne filling the room, reminder of the row of Bobbies she’d burned out before finally meeting her match around midnight, just fine…

JFK-19 stirred, eyes sprang open: “I, uhh, Miss Monroe, have you seen my birthday cake?”

“Why, no, Mister Precedent, what heavy cuddle moan? Wire wood ladle hold eeny meeny minor hold mien shaver wand to nose out slumber caulk wane sheik hood avenue orchid chasm wend heaven she blanked ewer ossified mint?”

“Whale, hue cotter crude pointillism tariff,” Jack observed. “Two varied grate ponds, canoe datum tinkling a pout hat. Pinochle feed chores, Toby shore.”

“Naught bet tea fly nest,” MM-33 modestly agreed.

As they woke, the conversation drifted and subsided, lobotic lust overcoming any linear programming, and they resumed their marathon. Meanwhile, far below Lung Island’s crashing breakers, Momo and Bahama Matt were mopping up remains of Montauk Chair; MLK-51 safely injected halfway across the galaxy. 

EBGB-88 had long since returned to lunar orbit, bathing in titrations of teenage secretions, recharging his superluminal inklings, already prepping for MM-33’s impending injection. He thought up Lola Kirov, realized she was still in Days Ago, contemplated time lag trawling, and settled for telepathic feed to LL-1, trusting relayed tryst mache. Leaning back, the sluiced gush of Midwest daughters drafting down his smooth hairless grey skin coat, body now coursing with LL-1’s lobotic residue of thought release, flooding his open brain with images of coconut palms, Sloth Specific sunsets, pipeline kick-outs at Whyme? Caught by her grammatical stoppage, he spluttered in the bath, coming up for air, great almond eyes beyond dilation’s spindrift peak, taking in stardust reflection.

“Gotcha, Boy Toy!” LL-1 laughed, deep in Puntagain vaults.

Coughing fit gave way to EBGB-88 acknowledging: “In victoriam pax to woe belief scam.”

“Sleep well, wholly Graylien,” vibing him ursine cosmic blush.