Heavy Vodka

by John Pursch

Overcast stallions pepper monitored boot heels with wobbling circus seals, laying rubble liters in deeply plastered wells. Chords of baroque fuses plant rotating aardvarks on comatose trailer watches, spending the economy’s flagrant popcorn in a spiraling dirge. Monotonic desire implodes on queasy, hamstrung managers, indenting a causeway’s passing blame with inflamed mirrors of rhapsody. Hatches blather, ceilings collude, and vinyl verandas scratch spindrift islands into moonless blight, coping with a worn blade’s secular musings. Tutelage grapples with instinctive brio, turning to bromide in the autumn moon. Feathered margins gamely plump pilloried antiques, drowning oil drum strappers midway to christened yoyo strings. Rousted peons devolve into clairvoyant yardarms, haggling over terminal auction kits, scattering known racehorses for the greying informants. Stout rink mechanics erase creased tendons, seeing ear-to-praline with the manacled few. Dallying longer than streamlined repetitions enjoin, an operative smells ratatouille in basement blazers, motioning for early redress and concomitance. Flushed spendthrifts wash up, ease the banyan tree aboard, and bank on herbal feeding bricks, wrinkling in the limelight’s simple haze. Oats congeal under mousse directives, heave from allergens above a rampart’s stolen glance, and firmly mint a dainty troubadour’s mandolin routine, proving more than heavy vodka can retain. Slapstick wars rupture supernatural glazes, pinning otters to a diurnal damsel’s long-lived laughter, exonerating all forgetful mandarins.