Nyquil Shots

by John Pursch

Empirical swap meets haunt the trivial lessons of chest retraction nests, flopping farcical ottomans in turn for roped river wranglers, losing ursine pelts to leveraged grout. Renal factors ply cooing doorstops for swinging urges, melodically aspiring to grated pleats of honeycombed newts, carefully crashing into couch purees. How her hair attained the handful stage of logjam carp is anyone’s residential, feudal guest, given the hazy herbal opera cues that pass for theatrics today. Arched ontology carts the heavens to parts before unfolding queues, following liters of bare pleasure, leaving stubbed uterine glazes where hobnail roots once tamed an iron cat. Pool ball impacts reverberate between her ears, ringing in the midterm clues, flashing primitive collars and stick figure seasoning. Workmen class a bobcat’s spiel among the hoisted sensory peals of rich aquatic laughter, replicating sheer ellipses of a mute, indignant pearl. Cop cars excel at u-turn penance, skipping torn tutelage, wrapping loose igneous gender behind change machines. Rocks snore above tarped clocks, bringing off secondhand gunnels for crusty neutered masons, rousing interior flint. Irksome roll-on pews fulminate and whine, pressing for Nyquil shots, settling for hypnotic palms. Showering metric theaters girdle the urban manicurist’s coddled, inky viewports, amplifying her cheery milieu, greeting olive-skinned orbiters with flutes encased in seated scents.