Sunday, November 2, 2014

2 poems || John Pursch

Premature Underwear

Guard dog clouds
cycle past  mule autocracy
from thimble heaps 
to pollywog extortion winds,
plowing  fragrant noggin chow
for nutty-tasting goofball  horoscope recanters,
suffered nightly  in the flame of nubile leeward
cornstarch stirrups. 

Cells eject an iron doormat’s peninsular  effusion,
flooding  gusty calibration ducks  with swinger reputations
quenched and fobbed  from oily handspring  sebum test cigars,
shown to cowering reprobates in possible  addition melees. 

Hockey knockouts  purge ecstatic trinkets
of our gamey neckline hinge repair, 
plotting saxophones  and nestled distillation stumps
against propeller gang abilities, 
sworn  annually at breakfast. 

Philanthropic porcelain  equestrians
shove  awful angstroms of envy 
into preachy gloating spirochetes,
impaling theory  on the schlongs 
of cold cusp  decadence production asps,
found texting in a bath house stallion’s
premature underwear. 

Crumpled sky tones  inundate
epoxy beachfront barriers
with porous  mounds
of effervescent tofu garglers,
turned to husky scythe  remarks
in pebbled  autographs
of ornithological mangroves. 

Hats lugged  to pasty barter meets could’ve 
pawned a  stolen baton’s  angular flotation mint
but chose to cross the gearhead’s pate
with cervix  ampule sendoff clues,
flexing apoplectic in suburban
streetlight’s surly morning. 


If we glamorize our longings
for timely  mentions of
heralded insignificance,
delusional  bypass mistakes,
and trembling wattage outcries
of elapsed jungle  bereavement motels,
we iterate on owl suffusion  relays
in raucous  tachycardia breath,
whisked  to schoolhouse plywood
chatter traps of  pegboard teeth 
and stimuli  in wristed offhand epistles
to raw systemic youth, splitting heresies
with dunderheaded  dollop queens
for overcharged remuneration kin 
on kit bag  punching chard’s colloquial isthmus
of warning feather featurettes in  dumpy buoys
and tugboat  area faucet zoos.

Gargling plastic house flies,
sidearm  logjam burials infuriate
a simian roadblock nest
of ocular notation gowns, 
flossing  inborn hounded steeples
with forlorn vacuum maelstrom filchers
who masquerade as mazel tov  reduction therapists
to spell their  lowly quadratic ague junkies
for welts of knee sock catapult indulgence bets,
playing off the shimmering  byline
of codfish-go-lucky  simile stampedes.

Staking an occasional  tress machine
to papered  cell whacks of pleurisy
and torn blue bauble treadmill leisure,
swans sling descending  pool cue veterans
into soothing  batsmen near the dating whodunit’s
equine fest of queue-length coital usury, 
dislocated  handball operas,
and barometric easel  judgment,
flicked casually in limelight gasconade  infusion pecks,
grossed annually  by emetic tasters. 

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