Boba Looey Big Shot

by John Pursch

Yes siree, blob o’ lucid
ski-waxing perfunctory persiflage,
pellucid insipidities are flying,
bereft and beknighted,
pestering nocturnal hay missionaries
till tipsy docile hounds abjure
the focal minestrone communicant
to peculate imperious raggamuffin
tarts in dorsal disk reward retreat,
chopping binocular comas
to cowabunga punji creaks,
seeping polity in footprint antiseptic
street marauder greens of roughage glades
and sea-preened stolid sisterhood’s
connubial canard.

Nod to munchkin whirligig plump gestation,
tapped from tribal tree-length gunny sacks
to geezers spearing coiled orangutan expulsion meals
of soldered mandibles and ghoulish centaur fielders,
gibbon Titus Corncob Hat Rack #26
a rung for his gyrating monkey.

Now weird talkies splurge upon the stagecoach, crying:
“Shotgun Annie’s exclusive wheelhouse nut crackin’
window flaps to the rescue!”

Chest in dime, too,
nut amino toucan spurious
Boba Looey Big Shot’s purposeful
redaction mist contraption goose confabulator,
now diced and frozen into babbled ewe retainer feet,
lopping off the headway roomie circus ideation breath,
what one mired in stinky hyena crap woulda schemed
to fly offal mine handlebar mustard ashcan routine,
served vile and coldcocked on the
Sea of Unguentine’s Militia Ordeal of 1831,
some sixteen days and nautical nothings
out of Nantucket Inner Sound
(famed for aural coral manipulato segue bumpkins
and votive neurologically entranced doormen,
freshly grousing over stupor’s cilia, pustulating pomposity,
and brashly bombed aspic’s incendiary eschatologists).