John Pursch- A Poem

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!”

Oguns Peter- A Poem

Latent truth

Papa told us
that the inverse of love
was not animosity:
resultant vector in form
but the ghost of apprehension

Ananya S. Guha- A Poem

Shillong's Headless Horseman

The man on horse back

wearing his bowler hat

is said to stride the roads 

of a hill station where he 

lived. But headless, the sounds 

emanating clearly, horse hooves.

His spirit can never forsake a place, 

a country which he ruled. I heard them once.

Clearly at midnight. Did not see but heard 

till the noise deafened the ears, frightened 

the soul out of wits and recalled Grandmother's 

gory tales about her sons flying like UFOs. 

Ananya S Guha

Shillong, INDIA.

 

 

Eric Robert Nolan- Two Poems

"June, Washington, 1998"

June, Washington, 1998
A woman in a white convertible.
Some short words, a long
Pull at a brown bottle.

Approaching the city
The improbable White shapes
Of The Dome and The Monument
Glitter against midnight.

Somewhere in that city stands
A vast, empty room,
Quiet except for the echoing wings
Of a plain brown bird.
The room
Has no windows, only
Four white walls and the sound of aimless flutter.

Thump, thump
A sound
Punctuates the stillness, the sound
Of a tufted breast against white plaster
An almost inaudible collision.

How improbable those walls seem
To the indolent eyes of a bird.  The walls
Are eggshell White, really,
The same eggshell White as its birth and yet
So unlike those breakable surfaces.

Thump, thump, the corners
Are new and also sharp.  Everywhere
White walls and angles
Confront its persistence.

Its own breast was White once
And its brown, twiggy nest
A universe of failure, it
Never imagined a night
When such bright, clean places
Existed only elsewhere.

Union Station.
Ethereal tunes escape
A brown-skinned man and his horn
Of unpolished brass.
The moon, as White as Love,
As White and as cold
As a headstone for the sky
Sits low above the Dome.

Thump, thump, the sound
Is only a gentle reminder
Of the ordinary aspects of life
White walls and angles,
Childhood' past,
Hubris and White plaster,
The existence of corners, the fundamental
Limits of endurance.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2012

*****

"Crow's Feet"

Crow’s feet arise
Beside my eyes.
There’s no bird ruder
Than age’s raven.

Marched and marked nocturnally
All across my face, did he.
Is “goose-stepping blackbird”
A contradiction in terms?

(c)  Eric Robert Nolan 2016

John Pursch- A Poem

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.

Trip to Planet Zinco

Commotion-free police tremble in iron quicksand, belongings scraped to carbide metallic yoyo dish of contrail flesh. Undercurrent of stuporous wealth contraption confabulates a richly infamous neural spirochete to fixate any hidden agenda straight outa mouthy ritualistic lawman hustle, busting into waveform swill.

“Which way to Falling Back Brace Tendencies?” I reckon axial quench be battered shoestring salesman conquest of lucky slob repeater film, coughed to dirty secondhand life.

Sullen ticket agent just look away, stifle belch into folded mosquito netting, slump over steering wheel in detritus of ‘50s war-torn zebra, wad with striped T-shirt nonsense scream held in pending locomotion by Magellanic clod.

“Sure, I tell you, but first you buy exploding trinket from Planet Zinco,” was all he ever said, some kinda lapel toupee flipped over-easy sawdust style.

I fish in pocket for randomized currency, come up short again in senseless fury of sequential downpour, primate mumblers eyeing me through trapdoor septic dialect. Canopy of spaceport slogan collapse in warm combustible heap, scratching through fetid cheese lagoon for soggy wax loam, grown to six-foot corncob irrigation ditch of tempered stubble in facemask blues.

“Here, take off useless coinage sand fill bullion dollar nicotine perusal breath,” I proffer sweaty discs and crumbling banknotes in time-release delaying swerve as hands evaporate to dusk.

“Too late for tourist junket flick routine!” he cackles indiscriminate, all relaxed in beryllium nut grin, gleaming gums powdery wad with sneezing talcum block and steady grain of tackled footfall.

Just the same, he snatch the random money, salivating splendor begin to count in memorized precision, dead giveaway he’s holographic. Sure enough, I kick clean through would-be groin contraption thighs, flushing out ionic traceries of swollen pustule sag, frittered country lanes in southern bell-hop loquacity.

Sensing my passing cloud, the image counter clicks to offal pendulum and entire subway set debarks for parts unspeakable, leaving me in frozen desert tundra of High Chapultepec, what with paddleboat noggin doormen in such precociously youthful disguise.

Eric Robert Nolan- A Poem

“Delaware Sheets”

Sharon lies,

a sylph amid the sheets

in our room in the hills,

drawn up around her –

are waves of fabric.

Her warmth is the same

as that of green hills:

gentle, blessed by the sun,

fertile with promise.

Her dark eyes

are as thickets.

(c) Eric Robert Nolan 2013

 

 

 

Stefanie Bennett- Three Poems

Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry & had poems

appear with Dead Snakes, Ink, Sweat & Tears, The Mind[less] Muse, The

Fib Review & others. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee]

she was born in Queensland, Australia.

 

 

 

              COMPOSURE    

 

           Every Moon-flower

                Hangs above

                        An

                  Aggrieved

                    Garden

 

 

 

            1984 (Orwell)     

 

            Dawn: there is

            A long

            Distance

            Billowing in

            The loneliness

                       Of

                       This

            Shoal-water

            Summer –.

 

 

 

            MISSING   

 

            ... Seen but not

            Heard;

                    The Devil

            On horseback

            At a roadside

                    Shrine.