by John Pursch
How soothing a drop of fractal rain can be, given the aging of a secondhand mouth, licked wearily into weathered fields of sensed and mirrored deeds. Selling active discretion to radial dialers for tangible feasts, a water bug’s nifty proconsul presents an authorized topographic melange of newly christened leaders, yearning for a flowering tree. Lost luminal trestles arch above a dockyard drain, leasing our lonely coastal murmurings to starlit semblances of a nocturne’s embrace. Temporal ceilings crank an impending role’s terminal haze into underwhelming moot salvage, heaping heard denizens upon a rusty plate. Morphing out of torn blossoms, arrivals spurn the Jetway, creasing tarmac and gantry alike with burnt sagacious hues. A creaking of slanted liners means lost landmass for the curried and ferocious few, quenching a dirgelike planner’s erosion. Torsion fairies spin a nimbly spoken treaty from lexicons of barbered hires and smoking bets, hatching cropped vertices in cities of insightful bliss. Calculated days retreat in exponential fluff, passing over a cyclic wafer’s cruising wall of chipped marble soup. Handing a bagatelle to riffled accordion layers, a mink steward grovels for endless ink, scratching out a blackened hearth. Newly found color impends, imbued with meshed labels of sorted ethane freighters, fueling tracked emotions with therapeutic ease. Butter transits the sun, deputizing a tertiary veteran for registered pleas, chapping the intrepid caboose with warm regards and tartar, spooled along a barge. A hint of variance glows, trapped in the webbing of our mental dawn, pressing the vacuum against a flickering pinwheel’s subconscious intent. Unscrewing the clouds, capped skylines conceal the source of midnight’s clarity in lost profusion, heedless and direct. Constellations obtain in slumber’s groan, raising an eyebrow, slipping coyotes beneath a low electric hum. Pitchfork unison melts into quadrants of stellar haze, focusing menageries of softened sound, rendering a pixelated cerebrum’s duly routed musical whim. Closure lingers in notified granules, hypnotic and serenely choral, edging through an inky face, granting motive to madness in barrels of rolling thought. Pointers masquerade as hearty tokens, curling into smokescreen gazettes and warm bagels, plastered in late show senses and slowly wafting hints. An unheard footfall, extravagant and immobile, veils an error’s propitious squirm, aggressive in its play of loose arousal. Grammar coughs the grays from a bakery’s failing sign, catching on usage hooks in fluted plumes. Aptly potted swarms emerge from all-night shooting slots, farm for spent empathic gist, and brown an oven’s lucid parasol, glimpsing elevated troughs. Clock-watchers march through spatial girth, topple an hourly mute, and hassle an actual hoodlum for unwashed coroner sheets, monogrammed with bony fists of mane.