Susie Telekinesis adjusted her quicksilver
in the face of a Hawaiian blowback
that sprayed skyward toward the rotunda
like an opulent bullhead intent to kiss
her glidden cannabis breasts.
Her friends, the blurting, bludgeoning Madeleine Tanzania,
and the taciturn Tess Abyssinia,
their barbitalized bloomers temporarily sidelined,
gave puckish gunpowder grins
as they surveyed degreased collarbone cuts
from K of C, for bleak Bolshoi bacteria.

In the midst of this carbon adventure,
swingshift melanoma metastisized
to their duty stations in a clerk
who shall remain erroneous—
and permeated his balogna breach.

Up ran a wheezy Iberian, a paunchy, mink resistant
manipulate from the Baptist embassy, who remarked,
“the gust magnitude irrefutable bony Lithuanian anti-bodies
you harbor are without peer, you conspiritorial carolingian twit!
Oh, and might I introduce you to a wholly libelous whor
just arrived from the primp house?”

At this, the trio of cicada decadent trip-tics,
danced diehard shinto in formidable Handel,
proclaimed their diaphragms inseparable,
and resolved to found a dirge conservatory
in a great stickly pine’s
woodpecked recesses.
Which they did with deciduous crank-case aggression,
and played bargain crochet to boot.

Davis Johnson


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