Watchingstoned, T.V.

by John Pursch

Plunged into cooling actions, steering docile transports on curvature’s familiar blend, pilots wiggle toes and waggle handy signatories, flashing jacked-up neuronal musing towels in message cod truth. Sailing internal overtures to a cloud-top stricture’s fencing dream, they ply a scalar wielder for his jellied orangutan mist, plotting the double-crested monocle game’s penultimate wooly ambit, seeping into entendres in human endives, soon to be orphaned.

“Better on elfin wash time, windowed to annual bleats,” croaks a Deputized Commodore of third-charge peanuts, smearing on encoded yearnings. Grazing an oily pie toon, she makes for annular disjunctions, presto full of threaded otter, coddling to caramel kits. “Crochet, clapboard datum,” barking into nearly spatial quip-free zines, fixative be mined for strip solids. Molecular bumblers startle android moving cartridges, sifting landing cores for opposite broach captors, waiving leftover strumpets.

“Onto clear walls, enter homing pages, bloop twenty for fiftieth wok,” an automatic tower ripples back. Screaming segregates slipstream pines from eardrum edge marimbas, locking the lead transport into filial ape regard, scampering dimpled grates upon an urban veil. Osmotic welters opine suites of notarized trees, bubbling down a finitary flue, crossing the hollow till the empty centaur cries for mercantile express, trending to a punctured disc.

“Ellipsoidal annuli in catching-glue freeze,” a tertiary pilot beams, eyeing Watchingstoned’s gleaming pyres. Endless yawning maws of tunneled glows accept the carnal gaze of teleported steel, cased in fleshy guns, mesmerized in planet souls, abridged to merging bees. Cataracts inherit clipped arcades of motive breath, glancing down conical lakes of duplication’s cadence, faulting over caught exuberance, splashing tones in guesthouse gusts, lauding the ringed embers.

Envelopes crawl shut above, soupy and enfolded, clearing thought dust antiques, wafting pending ideation into spooling traits. Freely now inside the Tunnel of Vision, pilots think to clash with grammar’s ontic phase, hoping against certainty for reef wilters; laughable to flee the grid, but knowing of a solitary mythic case of tunneling in the Tunnel… Grooved, entrained, and intertwined, they nod into obviated silence, catapulted down annealing strips, coiling into phase.

A standing rumor holds for decadal drone’s impugned, incipient sigh, fueling the rabble’s strident cries, fouling the rightful heir’s thrown visage with flushed miasma. Sealed by seminal crackers, the story’s pedigree reminds us all to check intention’s dotted tears for trebled clearings, waning in the smooth rotation. Craving gravitation’s certain spiel, pilots wake to timing hooks, teetering onto rapid eye-scan vowels, taming the cargo list impasse, per spectacular windage.

Switching to welled nominals, they seed thematic pendants, flopping startled onboard minions, lifting state to funneled view. Small talk wends to taut consensus, vibing green occlusion; synchronized approval’s heartfelt beat. Reaching for dock, theses deplete in crescent wings of rooming halls, seething with transposed feet, encasing pliant boons. Obligatory sleet contains arrival’s blister fuzz formality, somehow still bona fide to psyche cream, despite diurnal traction’s technical gains. Enforced slippers caress timed owners, easing emotional inclusion, reeling into landing.