Wednesday, September 16, 2015

3 poems || John Pursch

Any Spectral Flub

If hassled threesomes skim
laminated hills from sordid hasps,
why do willows gather tuning orts
for terminal sundaes?

Creeping up the waypoint legs
of bulging radio philosophers
on cantered serif schooner
ogling missions,
sobbing boxcar hyphens
allocate a mightily betrothed
aluminum crunch
to handy stepwise
punchy kneejerk paddy flagons,
grazing crusty Asian potentates
with seedy shot archival locks
of serried paramours.

Perhaps a futile slop equator
could’ve blinded any spectral
flub of coven crater mistletoe
from leaking future pox
into sequential sties,
refurbishing an upturned fossil.

Festival Rolaids

Peculated hairline stature
waves in coiling public Sundays,
Tagalog entreaty shams, and
selfless bisque of flagstone firs,
shedding prurient disease
for slammed giraffes.

Highly carbonated uncles
remark on everyday repairs,
cruising to breakpoint copulation
quarters of smoky backstop galleries
and sullied stodgy turnout wader
chorus climbs to suppurating
schoolhouse pleats.

Pummeled wastrels dangle
over daily gain calamities,
bulging picket farce impact
from cheesy holograms
of pocket glint and
festered knuckle onset.

Testy voters dive for
segue contraptions,
amending life preservers
with lungs of lusty column kids,
pinned to festival Rolaids.

Crushed Congolese

Swabbed eloping nylons  
founder on a clump of shale,
all but mown to bubbled hair
by blurry chilled Caucasians.

They simper into gallon wigs
of tempting dressage pods,
inhaling licensed tundra sleet
with pastel mobsters,
engulfed in exercise.

Laid into unseemly tusks,
savory caricatures reduce
ungainly precedents
to nubile headwaiters
in swank imputed cowlicks
of screen door sheen
beyond a scaffold’s
slackened drawstring,
trailing rain.

Bogged totes congeal
to wheelie boosts,
staging couched peonies
for expressive charlatans,
bonging crushed Congolese.

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