Given O'Clock

by John Pursch

Numerals mumble in communal harems, cooing vowels, Cockney lore, astringent flies in clear-cut skies, chili repartee of boyhood belfry buckaroos or kingly angst or angling suction cryptic jean orthography in cotton.

Wandering indelible kicks loop in lowercase limbo dance to supple hip-lock. Baby dish appears in serried upstart cry of token bog, following endorphin’s hallowed bray to conned eternal eatery, mined philately, insouciance swapped with standing.

Towering atop an empire, lovers kiss beneath an icicle, drips morphing into fingernails. Parasitic umpires buzz till shown the horse’s one and only adjutant, an ear of blimey chestnut age, aside decamping femme in easel.

Given o’clock submerges in sangfroid doubletake, screening silkworm symphony. Caught in edifying scratch, we parachute from tinder to simple conclusions, overlooked by tourists.