Jason Sunder lives in Vancouver, BC. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in filling Station, Memewar, the Poetic Front, and West Coast Line.
Death in hiccup’s tic. Where bivalves
spawn under calcite, octopi snort
glockenspiels. Only flora revert
to mulch, their garbled gulps
of fractals thought inedible. Other
beaks spew billet-doux, regurgitating
not shawarma but a mollusk swollen
with prurient sestinas.
Is hiccup spasmodic itch? When hobbled
glottis throbs paroxysmal, unhinged
vertebrae squirt sequestra. Paramecia
obliterate an astronaut; peristaltic
blats obstructed gumbo. Meanwhile,
hiccup clobbers an orator and plagues
soundscapes left otherwise unsquished.
Under held breath it will spawn
plankton, isopoda, and mytilidae.
Inspiration expires under
hiccup’s surveillance. Gastroliths
flounder in sluice. A cuckold’s
diaphragm can’t bypass pulmonary depth
charge—those indignant spurts that
sputter through clams!—and hiccup
wins when flâneurs barf starfish.
When hiccup iterates the uniterable
we render glossematics irrelevant
(otherwise, grapheme’s globule
comes unglued and Samoan anagrams
spam hemophiliacs). Inscription
interrupts presence; deferral
rendered in difference, or an obelisk
pushed through taffy. Left as
supplementarity, text clogs
breath. Hence, hiccup.
Blasted be the dyspeptic, hiatal hernia’s septic sprig, utterance bungled in a rabbit’s wet dewlap and my jowls left flapping after the disdained ‘harrumph!’ of an off-put trollop. From your ecosphere’s embouchure swirls a methane cloud; aerative flexion a moon pie beneath heartburnt sauropods. I swoon papaya-eyed behind a fog of buttery blarts, my thoracic eruptions abrupt enough to make an ichthyosaur blanch. Perplexed, I turn to you and ask, “Of what language is belch when pterodactyls float above our briny depths, taut as tapioca behind split lips? Be this a pamplemousse? A root beer miasma?” In ecstatic clarity you dictate belch’s language; a troglodyte awash in wasabi, your Triassic microbe’s fragrant filigree.
Gastric swish and retch a tap dancing fop roundabout palatal yank. You regurgitate labials, brood chirping under sludge whilst retch pushes hot wads of beef from my butterfat folds. Crawdad crammed up a cakehole, lesser the grubs to gorge on your contrived locutions. No matter; wrapped in your burlap bosom, I content myself to retch this residue. Tar streaked sputum an aversion to chum but I savour the acrid splat from glottal botch. Sputter’s blot on post-op smocks be retch’s blight – jiggle a high-wire dandy until uvula’s pop plugs our gullets.