John Pursch- A Poem

Fragments of Lola

Three weeks pass in flickered streetlight gazing, non-stop vacuum hologram delight beneath unconscious tunnel doors in ecstasy’s believer troll conundrum alleyways of thought spillage, glossed to baying nudie lifers bent by waterway seclusion into placement ovaries, soon to be rejected; shouts of handcuff fistulae and blending missed poor tuner tease reactions dotting highball misconstrual fees in satchel underarm theatrics, squashing offshore tankard semblance cookie hikes to daylight river gratings.

Lola tumbles weightless from compartmentalized tundra thoughts to bleed-through desecration’s hair bubble grafting kit, shoveling lungs from lobot headquarters to filigreed insane recliner ash heaps, aft of teleported zucchini arms. Situational broth brews to teapot regulation froth release, slipping threshold loops of augury to bilious stare-down freckle emoters, compounded wryly with cold stupor drooling fowl.

She bucks the ship to Mach a-zillion’s overnight refusal pantry, wigs to MJ-23 on largely spurned inactive arcs of sapience identified with carbuncular reset queens, nullifying suit bag fuel interrogation tricks remembered by a slew of lusty lossage flecks, now floating uninhabited, just interstitial grist aweigh to blimey ticks of wacky cloaking denture theft.

Meanwhile, far behind in time luck slowing, motion capers exhume her filial resemblance to homunculi, numbed much later by eschatology’s salivated tendon chewers, dining on brush palace axes of aged disco quacks and queening stratagems in bubbled pawn shop neuroses. She giggles through time goggles, calling entourage suffusion pelf, dredging deep-store Puntagain revival tryst semantic fists, per EBGB-88’s encapsulated loom.

Flaring persona dust in Terran Hoagie dishrag sparks, foil explodes in mental dislocation starch of LL-1’s presumptive symbolism, blasting lingual fervor with convergent disrepute from alien foreknowledge gunship whores in stack trace helicopter wallflower spume, descending into Your Nuke’s satiated pinball strip, below Groin Zorro tunnel faction berth.

“Far crying grime from punctured disco free-for-failing rapprochement required in dusty lusty L.A. zoo depriver’s reprobate incendiary pylon quilt,” Lola chuckles, thinking parallel contusions into sawed-off landing’s final trundle’s hyperspace emergence fit.

“Codger, we grapple louvered contour cramming proxy windy stallions, trendy floor suction into folding tranquil ideation trough complete,” a voiceless thought-secreting tower infuses from bot elastic’s shaven modal prying bower.

“Clad in stellar dynamism, tube bedeviled with cinch pros,” she formally responds, begins the wander blech to preset prescience of current active pinstriped subterranean resistance.