The sky is a fragment
Of the sky is a fragment
Of the time I had a candle
Of the kind you find
In a drugstore watch.
Carrying time beyond
All else in fluid recompense
For spectacles of human essence
Gone toward the grain of marbles
Cut from solid memories
Of silent auction childhood dreams
In passing all but lost
To germinal considerations
Of an emptied corollary truth.
The house is creaking
In consent of constant cooling ambience
Amid the turning melt of snow
Above the Himalayan underwhelm
Of final pinstriped pantaloons
And detrimental sockets.
Sweeping handiwork rolls on
In paginated trains of idle
From barnyard brain occlusion
Stems to breakneck patent euthanasia’s
Continental tryst with
Paging anyone in red,
unanimously censored tangents
pummel humped correlatives
of perky wandering motel attraction,
dredging my connubial convulsive paratrooper’s
straw man alias to hip instinctual elan.
Vital sterns resect
cannoli mud slot carp berets
to skullcap testimonials,
impaling patient caped paraders
on ducats of a rosy picture window.
Cloners lick an indexed fistula
for turtledove inception cons,
cashing into squall pine calves
of gored marionettes in sullen
granary elation’s sponged
Sages peak in keepsake queues
of sold dramatic parables
on germinal hiatus
from sad matriculation buboes,
screwing topknot bearing tracers
into clapped salacious harbingers
of an Australopithecus
on millennial brunt petition prunes.
They winked in snowy satisfaction,
fawning foul the vile colonic daylight
baryon etiquette replacement phonograph
in kneed allusion marrying bets,
assuaging fashionable fame injectors.
Whether Cats Can Hear
Shins call uppity reserves
To married cod in muttered oats
Of clapboard country sand hall
Romeos and sadly shorn pneumatic
Starlets on display for cue ball
Pleas fly off the huddled helmet
Thermostats, encroaching elbow
Corrugation scrapes with shed
Repair, busting traveled veins of
Garbled transistor patios to crude
Masthead folios entrust the homeless
Crouch with welded dollops of leaden
Cossack wedding bells, asking Smolensk
For smooth consonants of retrograde
I wonder whether cats can hear
The scrambling of a fountain pine
To secondary smoking gown
Collusion feathers, pinned
Carefully to wistful rockets
Of card repeater house arrest.
She may be dreaming at miles
A minute per county headgear
Tourmaline injection campaign,
Frosting up Estonian mating threats.
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.