Saturday, September 17, 2011

John Pursch

All-Out, Butyl Steerage

Mingle freely at the gala's vapor lock,
clamoring for jutting parlor tricks
and donut boys given over to time travel.

Popping out of the portal in antique gear,
marshaling too much reserve, holding back
when all-out, butyl steerage is called for,
relying on relics long submerged,
our hero plunges headlong
into the enemy's third tour
of dutiful, four-alarm fire,
only to be raked under the shoals
by fedoras and boas of a font
rarely seen in this century.

Such are the verisimilitudes
of warehouse work,
launching clerks and boxboys
into lies of brute, impending regret.

A cavalcade of wanton images,
soupy in its cluttered sawdust protocol,
delivers stringent, hyperbolic missives
at twice the regular clip,
unraveled and scented with lilac.

John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His poetry has appeared in Breadcrumb Scabs, Calliope Nerve, Camel Saloon, Carcinogenic Poetry, Clockwise Cat, Counterexample Poetics, experiential-experimental-literature, Four and Twenty, Orion headless, Puffin Circus, and vox poetica. You can follow his work at

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