John Pursch- Three Poems

Tungsten Midriff

  

They swap oratory quarries,

spouting elephant delays till

dappled moonrise bends the sullen shills

in dishcloth travesties of spoon erasure,

shifting crescendos into sidecar snouts.

Revolutionaries style a shelf

from lettuce neckline voyages

before habitual informants

crop the whaler’s oily tease,

lining doormat bandwagons

for snaking sweet pea double cinders.

Our flavors cite looping centipede excursion drifts

of steaming snow in showered headline brazier tires,

billowed into foreign rubber stench

and undertow repudiation.

Miniscule kite fires chase a chowder piper band

from chambered ridge to sutured regatta stairs,

drowned to tungsten midriff scat’s

immutable predictor net.

Peduncular Pinocchio

Hairy aristocrats tremble

blinkered Morse code noise

in squeaky grommet alibis,

ruining her retrofit

of dowager revival.

Smaller loops release

six parachutes from

expurgated diction fairs,

padlocking peduncular Pinocchio

in gyrating gymnasium grails

till camels opt for grassy dolts

in overtaxed asylum pleas.

Coffers belch extreme police

in fuse resurgence,

sapping insipid oddities

for sacrificial hambone ballast.

Feebly shelled beanbag zealots

morph to reprobates of third-tier

stentorian gargoyle chard,

muffing the sodden keg hop

in satyr turf toe switchback toil,

respite all but carrying a teased

optometrist’s slender squid.

Cheeto Mink

Shouldering softly shorn

municipal bust lines,

crowds of swollen faces

trudge annually to silvered vents,

grating their sneezed whiz kids

into shiny trusted imitations

of slobbered lawman grease

and groveling coded escapades.

Virtuous espadrilles whine

to fifty copulating corn cob capitalists,

speeding into peddled sound

for gravy incantations

of mottled holographic smiles

and collocated denture talismans.

Purple majesties frown gracefully

at passing ossification monkeys,

questioning tarrying dignitaries

with right-handed aplomb.

He would’ve gotten up

for an altered cupola of tee-ball decoupage

and fulsome trim-time dipstick pet remorse,

but remoulade invaded enfilading vocal habits

at dicey bipedal mounds of looped stoolie minima,

arching for soldered gypsy teabag refuse,

shining in fettered car door grudges.

One could flounder in poured lobster

or androidal samovar seclusion mines

from noun discloser’s foveal finned petard

to octagonal leavings of Gung-Ho Cheeto Mink’s

dynastic plumb line rotary loan vine,

but Iditarod slush would still molt without

your consensual noggin’s necrophilic nod,

relapsing to slowed mulch or has-been gold

or teetering endgame ardor or conjoined twine. 

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.

John Pursch- A Poem

High-Phase O’Teuton

Omens of yearly comestibles

flock in fruitful flyby quay pontification blooms,

incestuous and bespectacled with

manic heirloom cribbage terrier flesh,

bought from spindly planetary maelstrom detergent police,

flown from ground to whacked thigh shin spelunker noons

of trebled moon-cave commissar release

to tandem truncheon bulb retort

on baffled sojourn oceanic isthmus arks

of covert island pie-yacht wanderlust.

Emphatic tears imbue

arched inguinal diurnal favorites

of sheds of statutory dysentery,

making local mocha’s Molotov inception discount

into dipsy ragtop strudel triptych fairies;

foundering on bylaw vowels, missing eels,

exploded zebra tentacle belief,

and culled-can paramours of lengthy locking

heel-to-spandex antler’s inveterate extruding pentagram,

waxed to fondled gobs in constant ambulation poofs

of nerdly christening cigars.

Surplus bone cooks puzzle under

kindred Hittite wall clock stocking lint,

pressing flying showboat gruel to

cider longings for chauvinistic euphony

in simply corrosive parameter-pinch jelly

rotunda blossoms of scrunched body bigwigs.

“Pulpit bodice camphor career-peen glamour curls

to the resuscitated eschewal of piebald flirtation lungs,

commendably towering past skirted city outhouse dereliction!”

crumples High-Phase O’Teuton,

Royal Salivator to Ornery the Kith,

Cheap Nasal Hobnobbin Gone Palookey

Till Dearth Fazes Ovarian Sieves,

rotated dourly on slovenly pebbled governing crises,

brought to flowed and cowering disassembly platform nudes

for legal bedroll spackle flotation’s incendiary nook

in Cranapple headwater quaff contagion mythos pleats

of time-retardant carousels.

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.

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Vulcan Mind Probe

Maybe he thought

he was some kind

of David Byrne

clone dressed in

ill-fitting, mis-

matched clothes,

too large shoes,

voice box cranked,

speaking in some

high speed variation

of all the tongues

of Babel endlessly

tested and repeated

in some unknown,

alphabetical order

as if he had

been subjected to

some kind of

horrible reverse

brain washing

experimentation,

negative and positive

poles reversed or maybe

he was just the subject

of some bad practical

joke gone bad warping

into some new hyper- 

space where the Top

40 Hits were earth

classics like Burning

Down the House

translated into Klingon

and made vocal at warp

speeds no human

neurons could accept

or process, whatever

it was afflicting him,

death was going to

be a blessing compared

to what he was

experiencing now.

Vulcan Mind Probe 2

He looked like

Rasputin after he

had been shot

several times,

poisoned and fished

out of a frozen

river, his long

scraggly beard

and below the

shoulders hair

knotted and

encrusted with all

manner of dirt,

refuse and matted

leaves, his clothes

a fabric not worn

by most men some-

thing like burlap

cut to size and

stained a weird

off color not unlike

the scent that

emanated from him,

a foul odor of human

waste, rotted garbage

and death, his glazed

eyes embers from

a camp fire beyond

caring, warmth in

tent on obtaining

-Drink!-, rumpled

funny money clutched

in his outstretched

fist, his voice a

distant, feral calling

out from Siberian

steppes, frozen wastes

no man can survive in.

Vulcan Mind Probe 3

She looked as

if she'd spent

her formative

years as a bare

backed rider of

pale horses

whipped to

a lathering

frenzy those

full moon

nights of demon

lovers, banshee

wails & ghost

coyote songs,

tone poems for

a restive soul

in perpetual wet

heat, summer

storms never

far from her

gloss tainted

lips, blue

shaded eyes,

hooded, barely

contained pale

tints of prairie

fires

Ayaz Daryl Nielsen- Two Poems

Lovely but Rotted

You lovingly share

a large part

of your beauty

with me

And smaller parts

with whoever

stumbles

upon them.

karma bandits

and

they’re

again

together

two karma bandits

and a centuries old romance

an incarnate love affair beyond all known lifelines

ayaz daryl nielsen, husband, father, veteran, x-roughneck (as on oil rigs)/hospice nurse, editor of bear creek haiku (25+ years/120+ issues), homes include Lilliput Review, Jellyfish Whispers, Boston Literary Magazine, Dead Snakes, Shamrock, and! bearcreekhaiku.blogspot.com (translates as joie de vivre)

Alan Catlin- Three Poems

Zombie Strippers

There must be a moral and a story

buried somewhere beneath all that

hideous makeup. An unfortunate,

small, random sampling of mid-

movie scenes, suggest there were

not enough letters in the alphabet

to downgrade it, sort of like grade Z

minus sigma nu rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

Why anyone, even a pudgy dweeb,

a past it, studly and well-dressed black

man, who way should have known better,

could find these scantily clad, barely able

to ambulate, ghoul faced hags, hot, was

beyond comprehension. As was all three

of them accepting back stage invitations

to be objects of some kind of gory lap dance,

movable feast. But this was not the kind of

of movie that allowed for questions about

faulty logic, plot consistency or deep

emotional commitments. Consulting

summary of movie during ads revealed

little other than the star was a porn actress

of some repute, once upon a time, known

for her talents on screen not generally

confused with Art.  Maybe this was

the kind of feature where past-it sex

stars went to revive their flagging careers

forever, recruiting new flesh as they worked

in a never-say-die-kind-of way.

The unanswered question of substance must be,

do breast implants matter in Zombieland?

Animatronic Men

Lurk, unobserved in late night

shadows, savvy as contract killers,

biding their time on the edge of

restive crowds, circuits overloaded

like a class picnic for children of

the damned, charged on Ritalin,

all of them singing Talking Heads songs

in synch, burning down the house

with their eyes creating a new kind

of disco inferno, oh those body

snatcher lips and those soul sucking

mouths hungry for more, more, more,

all the while those animatronic men

laugh, oh, how they laugh.

The Conga Line from Hell

There they are the revelers

wearing cheap conical hats,

bearing breath-controlled,

retractable whistles, metal

noise makers they all employ

at once as an ear drumming assault,

all in the name of dressing up

in new frocks and suits to

consume vast amounts of legal

beverages and other kinds of

mind altering chemicals,

driven to become adherents

of Nietzsche’s “everything is

permitted” edict, all rules

abolished once partying begins,

all sense of propriety forgotten,

unlikely liaisons formed in back

room office space, hotel storage

closets, under banquet tables cloaked

in white linens as if some merry

musician, band leader, had declared,

“Let the humping begin!”

Background music becomes the refined

crude that fuels the savage beast,

that suggests otherwise responsible

adults form a line alternating men

and women , grab the waist of

the humanoid in front of you and

let the dance begin, let this hydra

headed millipede begin unrestrained

kicking anything within its path to

jungle fever music, all the faces

wide eyes and lust crazed, mindless

as a herd of headless chickens,

all of them slaves to the hypnotic

beat, following the command of

a pied-piper-with-a-drum music man,

that bandleader of the doomed

exhorting the dancers to kick,

kick, kick until they drop, spineless

and spent in dark, unfamiliar place,

dead to the world.

Ag Synclair- A Poem

abduction

then the toxic matter
will be gathered for the
ruination of thought

preserved in jars
like the heads of baby pigs
we are a study

an experiment
the beginning
of a new world

© 2014 Ag Synclair

Bio:

From the safety of his boring suburban New Hampshire condo, Ag Synclair publishes The Montucky Review and edits poetry for The Bookends Review. Widely published in the small presses, he manages to fly under the radar. Deftly.

Colin W. Campbell- A Poem

 

TANKA

mysterious moon

so loved in fine poetry

so many glimpses

revealing forgotten dreams

so little of moon pigeons