Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Jill Jones

Hoedown at the Fuchsia Motel

Oh, capital of anticlimaxes, of pallid brags
tear-jerkers and wreckers,
my sanctuary’s blown in beige foyers
frumpy quadrilles, budget toddies
a four-poster in tasty gold wrapping.

Every shag is civil here, even for divorcees.
The hooker’s flustered by hazelnut creams
and rumours of autarchy.
A pavlova breaks out of its cloud.
A new treatise flip-flops in the marrow.

After I scoured the minibar, I varnished
the hydrocarbons while honeymooners
channelled objectives in sweet sarongs.
There’s a hoop and flutter in the waterbed
that’s the mercy of the corporeal.

The guest shampoo hydrates my antibodies.
Bailiffs debug another corporation.
It no longer matters. Here’s to all
the blessed unruliness. Leaves ebb.
A dolly waits.


Hats Poem

Dark extends to satisfy the sky
one-night hotels excite themselves with argument

Oh, that it presses on my head!
not necessity but forms of presence

The space, the yellow dog, that one iron gate
the brim, a sliding terrazzo

Consider, it was interruption
surrounding time, a house, a dream

Prepare to face order, contact faces, what decree creates
the hour, an hour that's whole and works

Days before days

If the confidence of the night takes the stairs to return
the end is more than average

And help, in my opinion
all these hats relate to something!


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