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.


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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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