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. 

Ululations

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 

ululations.