Pontchartrain

[Bob Brueckl]

Pontchartrain

 

              "Speech fading ink color yellow."
                                    --Gertrude Stein
 

 

I am not yet wet with the little trinkets of the meat of unbelief.

 

The pressure of the diphthong is on the mattress trough spangling the bleating chimes.                                                            

 

Assertive trees jerking my bloated rump's barf flambeing -- sniff the niff, blighted ego dick, pong bonk, boink, wounded pansies sound perfectly useless:  succor me.

 

Eddy my ass with the manure of eye lunatics, with the wilder adroit abscesses of the Mississippi.

 

To eliminate embellished cohesion, will your beguiling tooth acquiesce, incandescent excrescence, tangled muttering, I love you, mauve chastity diffused, dissembling foal bewildered, reeking of constipated stigmata trepidation, in ruins, renamed, haughtily ugly, it is difficult to change the startled colon into a noisy ocean of detractions. 

 

I am perfectly relieved by the muzzle on the occurrences of inches on the precipices of a movement of stony moments in two voices:  pale, trembling, redolent and swollen.

 

I see you in the woods happily resembling a nest of soothing outbursts, retching corals inundated with the impure peculiarities of gilded stammering insistences emerging, indolent fluid or thick caresses mingling with anise -- arise, a sonatina of the audacity of interpolated pussy purrs, irresistible memory, the actuality of pure crap, poignant smears wean into the wharf barf on the windshield of the cuckoo's birdhouse scorching under a pink peony.

 

The ladle bestirs indolence; the lard is lame -- minced descriptions of dilated ejaculations unasked and unmasked, inducing the paler leaves to be felt in a darker meadow of the nesting dictionary.  

 

All my bitches are male, grappling with the silk brocade collisions of bilious unhinged discharges, juxtaposed maneuvers of the elastic withering obelisk vibrating up your fanny, down your beefcake tonsils, etcetera.

 

Clouds of eggs like meteor spackle deliberately sparkling on the furry mohair snot rag.

 

A whiff of shuddered dredges, blistered perturbation mercilessly flat, splendidly shrinking punctilious starry intricacies delving into the tar-like rat turds, larkspur lashes cumming everywhere but tomorrow.

 

Suddenly I see the indifference in those who eat me a little less often, but my softened name is being erected anew.

 

Stirring secretions of disgusting particulars fading in the incalculable dimness obviating the ineradicable vagueness repeatedly duplicating mirth disposed to cutting up the giggling burrs ashone, the streetcar trestle is anxiously vulgar to imbibe scarlet scat scars in exchange for tinged effects, to accrue what is startled anew, disentangled impediments of lingering resonances not intact.

 

The meat of nobody is aroused like a shining thistle.

 

Yr zipper's open, stash stuff, sew my copacetic rectum climax shut, will Dan come to suck me off or eat me out, will she eat out:  I can cum to know; I have been known to come; often I will create a paragraph of cum:  you got gout.

 

The little pieces of my duodenum are disturbed, insisting on a night light mingling with the separated attachments -- the only crimson is spoiled alight, very nearly astonished as the fondled leaf shadowing a raw head between 3 scythes of identical indecisions:  treeless blue, blue-lighted louder, disturbing the doubtless breathless bush, unless uselessness is a ridiculously callous interference rapidly losing the reflections of levee suddenness.

 

Forget the opposite exactitude, quickly quiet, drop shit, suckass cuss, you tight thing you, clewless prudish pung, throw up the spunge, the blunder is astonishingly drippy, roughly stammering.

 

Mire shone, sieves of asterisks acutely festering, ludicrous, lost in my mine, indigestion stinging, split splendid, precious fertile pleasure languishing crocheted, coral incubations, unburnt semen particles, crotch crook nearly all alone.

 

To knurl raucous catjang, pod box in my ear ray ache, snout flak, gnarly gridiron rot, simpering hamper, tar spines, blithering lineaments' fettered blather, befuddled peascod inundated with ambling loam, aloof shackles drenched upon layers of enmeshed dots and nudged swarms of clobbered feelings opening up inside, peenge.

 

Is my wool tooth repeating itself, pretending delicacy of a nondescript hairy sentence's speechlessness.

 

Speckles of me ineradicably averse to the glare:  pronounce the word uselessly efficacious, baffle me with the embroidery of your celery.

 

Remind me to withdraw from the dwindling, to avert the flashing spokes of the omnipresent white searing sun not yet plaintive, choking on a cloud of dust.

 

Relieve me of fucking my annihilated ego.

 

 

 

--Bob BrueckL

[Allen Bramhall]

great poem, Bob. the issue of poetic response is dicey, not wanting to
utilize poetry. it is hard not to respond, and harder still to remain
composed. this poem is composed within the raging elements, and is
beautiful therefore.

Allen

[Sheila Murphy]

amazing, Bob. extraordinary. thanks. sheila

[John M. Bennett]

Great one, Bob -
John

__________________________________________
Dr. John M. Bennett     
Curator, Avant Writing Collection
Rare Books & Manuscripts Library
The Ohio State University Libraries
1858 Neil Av Mall
Columbus, OH 43210 USA

(614) 292-3029
benne...@osu.edu
www.johnmbennett.net
___________________________________________