John Pursch- A Poem

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She disembarks habitually in vitro, ritual slide through strata dead to miles below the Montauk Lighthouse, crashing surf line storms of vaguely noticed mummy time in pewter dented gutter stall from drowning seedlings shyly bowed in roadside hovels servicing the plowers that bleat the nightly bilge redaction myths of newfound factual demise.

Lola feels now surging pumping newly freshies through her brain inserting bodily coherence waxed in time-slip mojo, juiced parameters of solid city dignity winding waves to oceanic thought revival.

Ankle lockets spring from bubbled airway synch’s pedestrian emotion crux, revealing corridors of white-on-whiter, widening to open mind in finitude’s collapsing reel, unbounded plausibility moaning violins in retroactive histrionic serration, balking waning ruins across pomaded fate, repealing empirical shelves of sedimentary sedation’s schism from oneness whereabouts, interment cans to fleabag shovel drifts of image snow in knowledge sleeting cold fact omen persistence defiling predatory indications of traceback futility’s abortive temptation to segregate assimilated nurture garb.

“A liquid buildup still obtains, shafting all these precious years of corn starch perjury, cleaving to Your Nuke’s pristine lorry choirs,” she muses to no one in particulate resemblance, phasing down to bodily schematics.

Wherewithal our Lola grows beneath the sleeping cities, swapping stitched security with LL-1 in cloning bedsprings, huddling down the subtle consciousness to LL-n and n+1, defying all affinity for cross-bred limitation blur. The center fans from Feastin’ She’sbored to Mud-Atlantis hinterland, propping up the Chesscanspeak to Lungley’s hallowed corridors to skylit transfer’s existential placemat fog of Buggy Fatima’s liar’s knuckles, black bequeathed to Dearth in funnel jumps to spurts unknown to homespun Grayliens alone, where hybrids go by escargot in tawdry tandem oxen yoke assemblage escort solely by an EBGB boy toy, slacking off to Dolce Vita, flared to males beneath Lost Annulus and thence to Sandy Eggo’s staging groin for jump to Doyouwanna, Days Ago, by spatial ardor phlegm against the Puntagain’s embattled tossers.

Gazing at splashing subterranean drawl, she flashes back to latest interlude’s ecstatic attic, instantiating for Kabuki quite without intending: “Kabuk’, you fracking generalist, ye covered me with coal gas saturato plex!”

“Call me Clem fer nuthin’, nuanced wobblers training feet-to-chest resuscitation gabblers,” Kabuk’ rethinks, springing to soiled mammaries and shed beetles and sworn commands of condom cameos in mondo continuum nervosa.

“Yoyo dining flying wine phlegm your ghoulish coal gas bubbling buttress,” Lola muses, shivering in trained sheet en route to the Annulus.

“Barely headed?” Clem respires, him shelf comfy ensconced in Madhatter splat.

“Canned fry dental, you canoe drat, ya plastic idiom!” she cracks.

“Habla habba, hunchy,” thinking back to slimmer climes, sloughing into instant dream.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. An accomplished memorist, he recently recited the first 2,104 digits of pi from memory; check out his pi-related video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc . A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.