Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Denny E. Marshall has had art and poetry published, some recently. He does have a website with previously published works. The web address is www.dennymarshall.com. He also has a “Guest Artist Page” on his dot net site if any artist would like to submit. (See Guidelines)
Three days gone and revived,
made up to look like Scarlett J.
as seen through a broken lens,
made-up like a Sex Pistol on a
bad hair day then slathered in tar,
give E and forced into a large, airless,
confining room, smoke thick and jungle
wet, Techno-Rave music at ear drum
bursting loud, searching for a note
beyond high C. Surrounded by indoor
electric lady land laser lights,
disembodied hands and arms,
wave lengths in the air dangling
from nowhere like in a death match
of marionettes, closing in walls
pulsing, animal hot, amplified,
seem to suggest: Listen to My Heart
Beat on drugs. Anything is possible
now, even the birth of a new life form,
an alien invasion.
Catamarans and cigarettes
burn patiently at twilight,
facing blue oblivion’s qualia
with feathered neural undercoats
of sparse exclusion wafer trim,
splashed in extra vagaries
of pomp and circumnavigation.
Floral set piece reliquaries
reflect on harbor noumena
with crisply quantized stunt fanatics,
gazing out to cornerstone asperity
in purely histrionic maze relief,
touting horny dial benders,
bet to traced calligraphy
of nodal craft elusion nibs.
Soil secludes with overwhelming flavor
sighs emerging from savory tortoise poles,
wafting ashore to line-of-sight chronology’s
pineal waveform, relapsed to donkey onus shills
beneath a peculated pod of crumpets.
Shelter passes far below in rancid siren
beckonings of slave mechanic batteries,
sheepishly redacting oxen gamete flipper lore
from bayou’s brittle overwhelm in banded sag
flesh sundry pear appearance set of propwash
hagiography for dining crumb arrest essentials.
Booths touch rusty crippler berries,
leasing juicy seepage every time
a numbered stylish cone falls silently
in actual abscissa abscess overflow
to prayer nook puffer fish excretion quaff,
slimmed to unset periscope cakes.
Impasse City Flutter
Glossy hovercraft imply simple amplification,
waving pie charts at costly station ears,
foundering in open airlock dump truck stings.
Only sonic assonance applies for agricultural acquittal,
ameliorating ambitious actuarial edginess with timid squeals.
Nations pout, entrusting inlet depilation mice
to dapple ivory phyla into lusty chamomile predictors,
spattering an enzymatic sneeze with cabin application crushes.
Laughable carousers mitigate mitosis with wimpy wisps,
washing wallpaper moths in posing blotter candy crepes,
causing sobs in vacant shopping coilers.
Stacked effacement tests you fairly off and on for
cloudy hand-picked mortuary shell regurgitation gist,
flecked with salty scenic gradients of flimsy noontime
derrieres, told to burgeon elsewhere.
Deeply infected luge pennants
gradually defect to fourth-world pumping bars,
prosecuting ethyl geysers under blue striated statues
of arterial clay, barmy injection release, and
uncommonly aspirated spin cycle kinks.
Jealousy rarely airs its threadbare wedding tallow,
calling fallow turbulence by empty shuttlecock
remainder terms in fulminating angst,
but jellied close-ups glom onto requiems
for stooping littered parriers of pallet-bearing salad spiels,
improved upon in substring sequin showers of shouldered
impasse city flutter.
Dream Star Sundaes
Ransacked bumblebee hotels immerse an attic wail in sand, dyspeptic furriers deferred to queue-length bookstand marginalia retreat. Jagged accusations pickle pews in paper handiwork, limping past palimpsest skin canaries bound for mule team coal minorities of subterranean booths.
Beautifully sworn pestilence bemoans infernal highball terrace entry peas, fleeing for hired groins, kicked in quinine sisterhood by bandoliers of brothel coups. Disgraced inguinal statues funnel hissing power off deplaning convict carrion coats, lugging innuendos overhand to tipsy grief collection arias.
Tamed tigresses inter encumbered feudalism before middling sages con milled animals to exit stage cleft, cramping up in time for footholds to disintegrate in cauterized hysteria, billowing fine whines of plaintive aplomb.
A tap dance here, a fraudulent collie tarrying in loyal Quonset tundra lines, a sympathetic sampler fishing nervously off bluefin paraffin aisles, coping with shallow labrum tartuffery by entrance alley overhangs in severed blasting capstone armoires filled with bubbly; even the periodic emblem punctures our posing chillum with chili fog and Cornish ham genes, tasty to culled cetaceans aft of docile drainage tee-top maxima with senior hints of indigence and porous estate plundering, venting accrual semiannually per trepaned fin traction entrails nodding into standing water.
Dream star sundaes filter frowns to grimace gruel’s sedation piles of stillborn fugitives from jaundiced apple plies and viable surrender jets of solvent salutary knots. Choppers saddle manic cholera vacuums with calm tornado ocean liners, shopping for backspin.
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. Check out his experimental lit-rap video at https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
"Just my luck." You're thinking,
"To run out of fuel in East Jesus.
Where the hell am I going to find
gas in a God foresaken place like
this?" You dig out your red and
yellow gas tank from amid the ruin
of the trunk and start walking down
the unlighted back road to nowhere,
pass the sign that says: WELCOME
TO EAST JESUS NO PEDDLERS
ALLOWED VIOLATORS WILL BE
SHOT ON SIGHT NO EXCEPTIONS
Start thinking this running out of fuel
business could be worse than you thought
but you don't see how and then you are
in the 42nd Street subway station still
holding that gas can and now you're
sweating bullets thinking they are going
to assume you are a terrorist so naturally
you think, "It's time to hit some bricks."
But you can't. All the access routes are
blocked by these Homeland Security dudes
like airport luggage inspectors waving
their wands at you like they're going to
attack, then you notice they aren't airport
security at all but the dead aliens from
Area 51 dressed in uniforms and holding
these laser weapon things like a Mars Attack!
movie and you're all set to freak when this
waitress at the Roswell Eat Here Diner is
handing you a menu and you're ordering
the House Special Burger that turns out to
be this green thing on a bun slathered in
lumpy cheese which isn't doing much for your
appetite but the waitress notices and says,
"Don't fret, Son, food coloring makes
that burger green and the lumps in the cheese
are real moon rocks." Which, somehow makes
it all okay and after a few bites and no apparent
seizures a thought occurs and you ask,
"Hey, Honey, do you guys sell gas?"
And the waitress winks and says,
"Depends, what kind do you want?"
That's when you notice all the Helium balloons
being filled and how the room is filled with
Hindenberg replica blimps in all colors,
sizes and functionality reminding you that
this isn't New Mexico anymore but New Jersey
and the radio newsman describing the events
outside is saying, "Oh the humanity!" as the blimp
burns out of control, most on board dead in
seconds and you remember the gas can you
began with and decide, "Now is not the time to
bring up rapid accelerator facilitators. Hell, I'd
rather walk anyway." Which seemed like such a
logical, such a sensible and prudent course to
take at the time, I mean, really who could have
After years of serious drinking,
stints in drunk tanks, begging
quarters from tourists and church
goers, sleeping it off in unlocked
rooms, broken-into rectories, sheds,
dog houses large enough to accommodate
a man not too proud to curl up in dried
shit, after years of abuse, trying so hard
to die, waking up sober, a few fingers
short of a hand, receding gums no teeth
would adhere to, falling out hair a cheap
rug might cover, a dye job mask,
a permanent cast to his eyes, feeling so
strange to be alive and breathing trying
it out for size felt like a novelty act he’d
have to experiment with while working
out all the kinks, a process not without
drawbacks like coming back from the
dead with visions of altered states, foreign
places so strange his tales of woe sounded
like science fiction or fantasy thrillers
rather than a narration of the truth,
felt like the lyric verses he was composing
in a language he’d learned on the other side;
some say it sounded like a revelation,
others like gibberish and they were both right.