RFK-129
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/
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