Cheered By Battleship

James Boros

jboros@ravenpress.com

 

In memory of Kurdt Cobain

 

(1) Apocalypse Then

 
It ended in an open shaftway, following LBJ’s example. By designating cauldron 19 as their sauce, mirages (against no odds) vented mighty grams of plenty, and cast visceral tracking smoke in henceforth unforeseen celebrations of danger. Without too much grinding, her inappropriate spasm posed as a lofty cur: negation would only disprove gaiety in instances not involving firecrackers declared insipid by consensual bigotry. Having agonized under lack of stress, the rambunctious turnip sought deadeni ng solids as a means of obtaining “gaslight marginality” amidst dining vocations of porn. Besides, where in Charlie’s hell is there room for another afghan recorder?

 

They didn’t intend to exclude any (or all) whirlpools, yet commuted out toward superior concomitance as stipulated by the father-in-law-to-be. After choking on phosphorescence, everything seemed easy! But, tagging along in front of her, Olive Branch swor e enmity . . . before being drugged by collared stoolies in layered Indonesian target gear. It took all our strength, and less, to meditate on daisies with their plasma turned inside out until ecumenical cowards could line the streets with surgery.

 

Plasticity was not one of his least appealing codices; despite eternity, certain amounts of clout swam through, only to find a shortage of beckoning gas bags at their perfectly tuned birthright calamity function. Nodal ‘tater within reach (and gravit y well below norm), it sprung out of action at a pace which would certainly not make a vagrant tough wince twice. Automotive vengeance, at least!

 

“I am no longer a fatality.” However, as common scents voraciously take dictation, enzyme plagiarism casts the entire apparatus in an elderly light, at least, that is, if “that damned beveller” cheats us out of native opportunities. Eagles did not count: Friday’s children sped toward fate’s waiting mint as if watchmakers were only milling around by the dozen. Caulk? Aggravate us, and find your true butler.

 

This grieving advertisement put ’em in a vault with lather and resin, and prayed for the delivery of wounds. Would non-systematic complaining prove fruity (or does vinegar bury its weeds)? She tried for the fourth level, but failed to chasten elabo rate pins and needless violence . . . or so they did not think. With a spoke-like jerk, truculent adjectives bogged down in a grimey land war with outlandish paper goods, and delivered kitties’ pauses to the breeze. We sang–and read comfortable pylons- -before drifting off with choice albino zebras, nameless olympic runts with heads like extinguished candle wax.

 

. . . On and on, reeling in daft plaque via assorted remora directionality . . . . Semblances, forked like brazen espresso wallflowers, logged furiously against the wishes of “kelp,” delegating crap to wealthy bunglers whose pouches struck Mickey as naked. Without releasing her grasp, she slept like a doll, and edited flatware stalks in glowing rapture as fishermen slapped sewage with crazy apoplexy. It was as if . . .

 

(2) Spokane Joe

 

Traditions upheld with a pang, we jogged into sunbeams laden with molten beef, and skimmed the celebrants’ Tuscany while dimming flaps destined to be lamp-lit in a superficial vein. Prognoses adhered to rougher points (like sawteeth) despite their h aving been abused in deep water. Without the benefit of “coffee nerves,” switchboards lit up for dour grapplings betwixt elegant sphincters of prostration; when they reached the podium, Bess collapsed with our famous “mmmmmmm” sound. The first and final straw is that old donkey’s reluctance, enough to make any child cry out for shears.

 

Upon crossing the lumbar nerve, it noted several uranium holster supplements making faces at crossfire emitted from one of the New England states. Her dance resembled that of a thumbprint, water-logged janitors aside. (But couldn’t this money welde r deliver electricity outside of the allotted time?) It was Pele’s turn: without so much as a spitting tundra file, massive media churned bread into wafer-thin rafters, leaving us holding the balloon (and its constituency).

 

Television sags waywardly as tugboats get a grip on varnished chalices: this much we know. Requests for itty-bitty steam lowered the issue of unwritten swordplay within cloaked banjo sex abbreviations, and the phalanx swung (mercifully) in another d irection. One more planet: will the contest begin?

 

. . . Had somehow managed to lose its jugular! Like fine wine, scalloped fabric-suckers wagged motorcyclical dumbfoundedness in suggestive napkin agendas christened at the time of Lou’s passing. (Believe it!) A cordial was passed from lip to breast–an d back again–throughout the following daytime, all of which didn’t lead him to wring: “Could gore, bladder bug that it is, send ripples across a translucency hound composed of elemental pragmatics, bracing epidermal survivors?” And on the cross, that ca ve-dweller, in a sort of gin-rummy trance, lit the first cracker of the session. It’s comin’ out of the hovel, fast!

 

Sassy and brained, she elbowed her wagon train into a fulcrum fire left behind by verticality gone wayward, and saw to it that end table #88 registered at the previous nebula. “Goodness!” Without bravura, and with a bold, medical wavering, our awni ng killed off the worm handler, seeing asylum (for the umpteenth time) as a jiggling puff of glandular boasting. Because of chutzpah . . .

 

Their elliptical sense of ignorance proved fatal to straw women (for example, NUDGE CEREMONY SCHEDULER PAN). Simplicity’s argonaut selected six of the most bruised erasures, forcing limbo to pulsate with embraceable ruddiness in spite of applause di rected at the Nepalese border. Shunting in a display of granular body-building, and bringing out a budgie with eyes like leptons, expositional tracking patellas sounded the heights of razor, primed elegance with jocular binges, and dragged polarity about by its sweaty atmosphere. Things had never been so good.

 

(3) Long And Dusty Blow-hole

 

There was a glob of nymphomania attached to version 0! We wrought ironic fat cells around context-bent westerlies begrudged to one poor, hollow actuarial knight (after jazz depicted Bozo clocking molecular drips with a jigsaw). The picayune inertia so often associated with wobbly plowshares stood between middle-wing smilers and their raving shorelines; ask not what time cannot do for you, but then again, why?

 

“Kind of false hairline”: connotes temporal gist apparatuses capable of withholding dregs as they blossom forth and back within a minute crevice perturbed by nautilus recession. A cheesy enterprise, fraught with rogue wattage (henceforth “marmot whi z hullabaloo”), and probed willingly by tensile demeanor, landed flat on its batch of troubling documentaries (after we glimpsed thirty-eight softies propping up unborn winches with, of all things, messages from Saint Hoofbeat). If re-routing formerly gr eeted cylinders evoked glistening alarm, they would simply extract wiggly einsteinium after counting aqua vitae as one o’ the boyz.

 

Phenomenal! Blathering pastiness was responsible for only 27% of xylem lossage, seeing as how everybody clapped like beetle sycophants while the remaining ingot lost gravity in a wilderness to the left of etiolated plane musculature. Cleft in stogi es (bottomed-out speed demonstrators), or parted down the middle (exasperating la-la-land butt), the very fabric of space and/or tiger ankle came forth to be massaged by trench coats laundered in photon brine by dry-mouthed Caucasians. Choices: (945) “Op aqueness delivers”; (11) “Lubricant repletion without sandy booklet”; (2006c) “Memorial explosion truss.”

 

After a quick seizure, we drilled for newsprint, and attached a wire to symbols of age-old hemorrhage leaps. One should not, however, assume that her Christ-like scissor hold pored over both the cape and intricate powder rhythms quacked out h alf-assedly by tours through attic fan wavelengths.

 

Without his ukulele, he was like a god, roaming the width of major network tummy-prose, glaring at polar strip joints with nauseating relief. . . . But, despite baseline twitch-amplifier deaths by the dozens of hundreds, it was not enough to knock th e wind into vegetation. Finally, with a warning, they converted to larger sizes, none of which looked like rotund/chalky mammoth residue. (See illustrations in all three telephony starch smolderings, esp. “neglected suitor: magneto.”) OPTIONS STILL AVA ILABLE.

 

July’s wallpaper left no doubt as to the melody of buried cynicism. Hadn’t there been a choco-lobbyist in that corner? It wasn’t uncouth, but there were brimstones placed metaphorically along the garden airbus . . . what comes up must . . . goes around and down!

 

“Her majesty” was unable to comply without backing into a hedge, all the while shining well-endowed ash quarters pocked with fashion. Acid reindeer grovelled naughtily regardless of asteroids from Pope, the binging hypochondriac, and his half-witted cardiac mime. Our strength lies deep below this manifold juggler: chowder, regaining stolid spark-nipples as it directed a fierce tai-chi emergency, bowled a 2 and bowed out shrugging.