She drink semi-solid carbon in long black quaffs from stingray muppet skullcap, inhaling secondary cloud counter smoke from crane operator on emergency relief valve lunatic assembly, midway down any careless gradient you dare to defame.
Flowering brunt of springtime jet exhaust falls in wisps of midday heiress launderings, capturing essence of distant fluoride scrape from ownership’s heightened tingle of breathless spurts and warm incantations from massive hot sundaes, overtures to hot-hand stealers and sheets gone sultry in the wintry excess of Nubian zero.
“Wad spray we wend hourly wave on drowned to Flirty Sackcloth Street, spree to lock all urgings far away fer good-hand-punchy mirrored longings, what we filched from interrupted human meals lost night?” Penelope inquire all laconic, her voice effusive in screen door shutter motion frost-alike contestant lilt.
Lola chesty glance up from disassembled torso, whar she shirkin’ on shrink-wrap duty, tryin’ to keep same semblance of pay grade fir canned tenebrous monitor’s silicon saddle faction. “High’m makin’ marks like they’re crowin’ outasight and steel this hollow lobot want glom to life. Hail, eet won’t heaven glow, from I-sockets or andy rectilinear orifices!” she laments, severing frosty crustaceans from erstwhile pineapple seedlings. “Props I otter chaste give hup?”
Penpal she chest shake her head, suppress a cacophonous grappling hooker bauble: “Ear, slammy heave a go-go,” grabbing that recalcitrant torso. “What’s it, RFK series?”
“Yo-yo, he’s 129,” Lola grateful fer da help.
“129? Movin’ trite a lung, icy… Mammary serves me, last RFK I tweaked wuz 38, mossy bean wayback… No, five years aged canoe?”
“That’d be, well, sex years now,” Lola surmises. “Mangy improvements shins thin, methink.”
“Nod two worries,” Penpal now absentmindedly, way into fixing this Bobby. “Thar ya go, Mr. Cannery,” one last cervical yank and RFK-129 sits up alert, tie hanging over open shirt and wireless entrails.
“I uhh don’t believe we’ve been uhh properly introduced uhh ma’am,” Bobby smiling into Lola’s thighs, baby blues locked in conned nubile precursor to lobotic foreplay.
“Correct, Misty Senator from the grated state of Your Nuke,” Lola catches the downbeat flush, extending her hand. “I’m Lola Kirov and this is my co-pilot, Penelope Penpal Jones.”
“If I may be uhh frank, I seem to be at a bit of a loss as to our whereabouts…”
“Where exactly are we, Mr. Cannery? Why we’re aboard the S.S. Didactic, on maiden heaven voyage from Dearth to MJ-88, target whirled soon to be rescued from ecological implosion by a bland new ruler with all the modern conveniences,” Lola’s practically treading water in midair now, the ship going weightless for transition to time slip.
“Perhaps we otter button up your shirt, Mr. Cannery,” Penelope volunteers, deftly beginning the process.
“Why I uhh thank you ma’am, but maybe we’d be uhh better off uhh unbuttoning yours instead,” reaching for her blouse without a pause.
Lola laughs: “One of the so-called upgrades in the RFK line this year; offal chart libido, automatic philanderer module, womanizer tweaks. He’ll be two fistfuls in no time. Best to bring in an MM-99 or two, let them wrestle for the rest of the trip before we team him just prior to landing.”
Penpal struggles, escapes Bobby’s clutches with skirt half off, blouse in shreds. “Yeah, just an animal,” pressing her lapel, signaling the orderlies to hand-deliver a bevy of MM models. “Let’s get outa here!”
“Uhh uhh whey-a ya goin’? I uhh we-ahh just getting uhh acquainted,” Bobby protests, grappling for a loose ankle, pupils wildly dilated.
Lola and Penpal slam the door behind them, giggling in the airlock, just in time to hand-select the MM’s who’ll keep the newly online RFK-129 occupied.
Penpal and Lola recline in strap-on tachyon bath, smearing time-slip gel on each other’s faces, tingling with subcutaneous burn of lost emotive grounding, soon becoming present then past now distant memories of mammaries in wartime hovels of Dearth’s manned conflicted 21st Century resource wars of obsolescence and econometric foreshortening.
“Feel it on my right elbow now,” Lola moans, jerking her arm, response to sudden chill of slipped whirled blue foam intersection.
Penpal smiles, shoves a plunger Lola’s way, flooding them both with star-baked baby-blue rays. Lola relaxes, feels the warm glow of old-time bodice partition seep down her thighs, ionic cloudburst wisping off into tachyon drainage filter. Penpal soon lets go, whole ship now slinking into rising shadow overhead of doves on blue sky, not a care in sight, minnows bracing for impish pterodactyls, pachyderms eluding pavement overhauls, mynahs winking at cubicle dawdlers, mediocre ogres eating okra in wan plantation filth belying bayou bombast, plastic sorcerers bemused by funneling circumstance on everyday street corners of drag queen youth in pink crockery carbo-loading growth mechanics, flight to pox-built rotary gaveling cons spelling miles at miniature shell-game continuity, spotting wax house mud line quartets even monkeys in atypical wiener-trike-haul banner-glow nautical punditry, reasoning from floral goon-a-bite to haughty simian nectar winds, spoiled spatially by versioned brocades of Kalamata gravesite shallows, pestering floorboard opinions from the donkey’s awning…
John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry,Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
spotlight/whiteskybooks. His recently released experimental lit-rap video is at https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.