Saturday, December 7, 2013

John Pursh- A Poem

Periodic Breadfruit

LL-1 giggles at sequenced chalk-talk crackle of radiated pre-war vellum, counting divots and pirouettes of anachronistic wardroom visits, doorstep catchwords, and semi-conversational replays, meshing foggy breath with fossilized deferments. She scans for contrails, finds only shadowed thoughts in old curtains, faded wallpaper, and the peeling drywall of an aching summer camp, pushing through cat door tendencies and slipstream excrement of taut effluvia, given to daydreams of lunar unguent and helium retraction in misty sailboat drift.

Spun from cotton academies, she filters through footpaths of jungle residue, hitting headwater locales with downbeats seceding from internal tremolo guide dog intent, weighing turnip blossoms with a mourning pauper’s incandescent reflux.

Something’s snapped in LL-1’s opinion registration code, rendering spoken ritual dusty and tribal, obviating Etruscan diatribe retorts, flitting from worldwide penance to importuning gravy clots. She suddenly finds no solace in armchair physics, preferring to play chestnut-related whist refusal with a recently macadamized hypnotist, relegating consequential plaque infusion to the drainage shepherd’s ceiling funnel. Even storms of identical horse uremia no longer lunge at frugal cockade hats in her prescience, regardless of lenticular potato stupor’s omnivorous recall.

Somehow hovering has caked in sloppy waves to plug insertion nozzles whenever eastern magnets potentiate dizzying whimsical chaw.  In obfuscated gristle she finds a horoscope of lace and criminology, bent in tiny wire samples of neighborhood syllogisms, blending lusty oats and wicker feelers. Haystacks penetrate perpetuity, revealed in quaint racetrack vignettes of whistle-stop statuary, clawed to piecemeal surveillance by dog-eared marionettes. Parsley sleeps in tender rivulets of silent pain, defrocked light bulbs, and questionnaires in foreign consulates, filing past dreadlocks with cavalry parades down snowy tree-lined memories of fungal stereotypes.

Wondering how aces made emotional cations fold noisy laundry’s aspiring lignite, her lobotics precess about a shaky focal bog of old paint, westerly airfoils, and cannonade starch, slipped beneath a reference to edgework’s perfunctory familial routine. Holes revert to formal logic, predated huckster motifs, and sawtooth souls, wedging her trued insignia in jellied aura’s periodic breadfruit.

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