Saturday, April 13, 2013

poems || John Pursch

Motel Room Blobs

Wrapped in dawdling 
country umbrage, 
held to flaxen filial yore, 
effervescent models praise 
the apt malfeasance of the 
yardarm’s ghoulish gangplank.

Rich surburbans quake
in laminated undertones 
of long-sleeved bakeries 
and intonations purely slaked 
by glazings of empaneled donuts, 
frozen over joyous blizzard wreaths. 

Momentary restive amblers come 
to pause in shy motel room blobs, 
plucked from courtyard stereotypes, 
inimical and highly crazed by 
lunchtime masquerades deserted, 
pinned to timelines often blamed 
for any tinkerer’s demurral. 

Falling veal unhinges solitary 
canneries of fission scrod, 
nibbling off wattage shorts and 
dust-defying hyacinth remarks. 
Groomed romantics disinter 
a beachside hovel’s frazzled wall 
of scuppered peanut oratory, 
held within a zebra box. 


Pellucid nectar hints 
at teeny emery bloat, 
crossing a rubicund 
emissary’s hammered 
discourse with growing 
cottage pleas. 

Diplomatic ragtime 
nectarines emerge 
unscathed from 
noontime museum fits, 
prolonging excreted 
concrete marigolds 
for hamstrung veterans. 

Treed caravans impute 
a terrifying truculence, 
stammering outdoors, 
predicated on missing 

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