When Treatises Are
Folded
Pyroclastic yeast
hatches intensional glutes
from architectonic girth,
ordering fiercely woven
sounds of peacetime terriers
for staunch dessert.
Evenings up anterior aunties,
spelunking down dawdling rain,
coping with trained absorbers
of shell-shocked hepatics.
Cruets of ruled mustard
filch isobars from vestal lockets,
catapulting antiseptic burbles
of freshly glowing quinine,
bleeping out cadavers
in drowsy doorways.
Enamoured with a stolen
greyhound’s mercantile hoot,
rhythmic driveway gravel sells
prehensile dough to tensor pleas,
cobbling goofy amateurs
from cached pain.
Impasse plungers fete
imploding carousers,
stalling armed adders,
craning perspicacious nectarines
when treatises are folded.
Chrysanthemums at
Dusk
Shifting carport dust
can probably be anchored
in goblets of concrete chutzpah,
gearing up for tardy streams
of caulked thespian ardor.
Dunking vertical amplifiers
in solid grass surrender,
dealers of filial whereabouts
coax silent teammates to skulk
about in shiny tuxedo tusks,
slaking winter temblors with
low-slung hieroglyphic repartee,
bottled for sexual portents
unimagined in supper clubs
from bauxite shores to romeo
encoder phalanx wind-alike
amusement stork receptacles.
Stipulations thus impaled,
prophetic sentience weaves
cloudburst flocks of liquid harps
in dietician dreamscape doozies,
flopping gustatory metric bark
from biers of voyeuristic blurters,
skimming off eternal scimitars
of thin chrysanthemums at dusk.
Raw Unaided Silence
Suppose an etching’s
swarthy impasse
hobbles a hornbill’s
stewed toroidal furnace;
then immaculate scepters
might follow ethereal prawns,
sampling the ground
for stygian grooming.
Wadded otters could then
withstand deferred cigar tunes
hummed by empiricists
in satchel renegade
espousal swoons
of mistimed idle polity.
But even if heads wear
softened bulbous caterers
in urchin marginalia,
energy will masquerade
in regulated frocks
of all meows,
interjected by the
dotted climb to
hovering still-life
moratoria on fate belief
taxonomy compunction.
Alas, the picayune
peculiar pedestal
of poplar breach
and birch stone ballast
still breaks in swaddled
loose-leaf golden
garbled gigatons
of raw unaided silence,
far above enclosure hills
and torsion barfly virulence
in sweetly held elucidations.
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/
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