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. 

Codfish-Go-Lucky

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.