Human Indication Myths
Like
nose, slight posies, sand dozers down the steeply peopled ouch of hysteresis
haunch and hunchback histories we know as -- well, wad do sweet nullities of
sheer lobotic frenzy ever know…
Moderately
notched, slime a frayed hemp vacuum, propping up vowels in stray morphologies
of emulsified burbles in waistcoat sex pipes, hostile to evenly tolerated
mumbler fields, squatter neon sighs suffusing peerless titled paperweights of
human indication myths, just one foundry kit after another knockoff biped
strolling clean and easy, drowning sordid fecund streets of glossed Americon
cityscapes with scads of scabies, tabulated sourly by sacked tumescent
insurance sheen in deeply parried alternatives to fate, straightjacketed by
syntax, played to breathless bowling scores of parity in split-ten sawdust,
popping buttered gals within allotted sandstorm seas, plopped in concrete webs
of carbon beaneries, coffeehouse cacophonies of soggy stranger lullabies, flopped
gracefully in corner booth to self-reliant bootstrap module spectacle and
fuel-retardant microwave insistence breed.
Cameras
replace the scene at twice the framed ration’s tailored blip, missing frequent
dings of stumpy-necked originals, yes actuarial papal submariners for once,
rarely encapsulated by distracting messages, and who could’ve expected pandas
or condors or these dazed oven-minders to notice or fraudulently record
heavenly slightest blots or bolts or biologically reasoned bits of knowledge
paste hobbling candy tinkle tinsel breath to remotely dissemble slum lord
dentifrice delays along these linear knees?
John
Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. Twice nominated for Best of the Net,
his work has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his
poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/
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