Vaseline Candygram

by John Pursch

Westward rows of haughty, disembodied jowls veer and wobble, fleeing vertiginous ermines; stacked spectacles glimpse oracular omens of parachuting shotgun brides amid a cellar stash of vindicated winos. Tenderness rarely speaks aloft in terms of scuppered scenery, breeding central feudalism’s ordinary cream. Molls evade an iced barricade on wheels of stuporous stop signs, hitting the middleweight brigand with handbag dumplings ala striplings, serenaded via Vaseline alloys. Axial thunderbolts emote in fertile, dockside quartets, abashed and in collusion with weird and omnipresent oldies, signed by bumbling easel stalkers. Blown away by breezy hailstorm wishes, entranced human peddlers freeze limbed detainees, wearing digital platters in labeled boutonnieres; wriggling fingers cheaply falling every few seconds onto jellied doghouse tunes. Ransom boats spill littered anchors into analytic contours, belching cured tobacco into morphing endothermic auction ears, hinting at spore conundrums. Dipping chaw and chalk toe gruel, a croupier rakes free prosthetic locomotive tiles from closing shifts, settling tactile surgery claims, in flavors unpredicted. Carrying the only detrimental, mid-course oar house known to modern mirth, a trellis tuner splits the girdled calf relief with hog sty energy, replete with lox and cabled Candygrams of beauty’s boxcar, plentiful and sonorous, in early logjam’s byzantine girth.