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/
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.
Peduncular Sam Wazoo!
Peduncular Sam in hologram is square-eyed chuck tease gravel barker, ripping dog contamination cries through Sloth She’s Cargo street fair. Fallen skeet in leaky partridge waddle wow and hoot and hiss and hobble-kiss his sweetened come-on quotient: “Cam swan, clamp hallway you, yeah you, un-you, hands two adder climb,” singling out entire blocks for military suction. “You, sir! Wad’s at? Swipe and kids? Them two! Yes, ma’am, step ride up,” drooling shards of freeway spasm.
Monitoring the auction back at Fission Control, Foisted Glass Lude-Tenant Amelia Surely Hardened the Pith is oh-so slightly reticent: “Don’tchya think he’s maybe chesty bit too smudge, heathen fur lobotic crowd?”
Geritol Superior stirs his coffee, cadges a glance, erupts in cackle: “Swaddle haystack, Sammy’s song is whale-deported blonde belief, phlegm in time pejorative, pea-fire ewe was heaven barn, cheery dial! Wise goats and sheep in counterpoint wad possible objection toucan hyphenate?”
“Snob haven routine vile of action,” Amelia murmurs in petroglyph.
“Said nothing; spin factual turnip the gain, suck entire quadrant sew mud ewe mention hat!”
“Pi-high, sir,” mopping disappearing brow, her last move incarnated squabble, she’s vaporized to wading cesspool, transits pecan flax repeat in dielectric imposition, compensated saddle orca into sundry timer newsstand disassembly. Assimilated figurines examine underwear from 1812, freckling the future with premonitions of comestible flan.
Meanwhile, downy street bevel, Sammy sucks She’s Cargo clean of sputtering pedestrians, spurning heavenly swans to abduct tease. Kids flood teleporter beams from double playpen, slept aloft in khaki. “I’m Erica! I’m Erika!” a statuesque emboldened looker cries in junta breastplate. “Eureka! She’s fond of it!” swoons erectronic palimpsest of steadily decanted vinyl.
Swallows tick off oh this cluck soar fanny bother, could afford malfeasant veil on antsy con in plover quad, granting dubbed dubiety. Compulsion skims redacted jellyfish, shaving tees in solar dross: “Avast Tomasi! Averted mossy Aussie, ossified flapjack quail!”