Porous Lovers

by John Pursch

Double doors swing lanterns, checking for qualified mockeries, tendering a yawning celebration for sterile gazelle trim. Painting aluminum umpires a glowing lavender speckle, potpourri colonels order smoothies to tolerate an even longer relay paste, smearing dental easels with wiggling lucidity. Touring parties strip musing autocrats of their basting criteria, helping a warlord’s latent vestige to shorn, preemptive numerals. Nominations clear the barcode’s glamorous hive, easing a stately nook container into tambourine chapels, heaving hoarse cauliflower earrings to fulminating cries of dry, denuded despair. Biplanes break apart, dashing cold-cream delays on mossy quail nests, pinning crooked farces against a thespian’s frail linkage. Open-toed swabs toss a landfill agent’s ceiling patter, glimpsing nether egos in borrowed beaches of a parking lot’s mealy formaldehyde crown. If only they propped down to mate in moldy and docile themes; how exuberant the cloven stone might seem, luxuriating over porous lovers.