Dipsomania

by John Pursch

Sipped triumvirates sop up painless time, capped with foamy seizures, hopping on bored carotid easels, flooding occipital blowholes with sink remains, fraying venous tantrums for the toys in extant motorcar chives. Too handy for dueling bout crops, a minimal lime rolls to pasty shins, catches a flaking pin’s chemise, and touts emotional vestibules, sacking equine redactions for woozy maritime clay compote, fed to tunneling terrapins in dusky wartime cuticles. Bark means it’ll swoon at sunrise, etching addiction’s brutish slaw cot with lacquered ascetic breath, coping when form-fitting navigators impeach an epaulette’s born acidity vent. Crucibles evoke premonitory brewhouse strudel, splashing cordoned hermetic seals with edelweiss in four-bar roaming quartiles of tertiary prunes, uttering pinnacles in spawned elation’s bony onset, screamed at wizened seagulls, irritating jangled limbs of hideous grout. Held for dotted tenderloin immersion, knotty ovations pine for cheerful counter girls, speckled with fallen sod, infused with rolling tinsel tunes in tubules of amiable illusion’s stanched cumin fumes. Saffron cores emulsify cemented Valvoline, splatter searchlight conifers with warning pelts, and fructify a chosen hamstring’s sentient vapor, issuing forked similitude to thickets, charging half-note umbrage for grueling grape-noose sybarites. Idle hemlock lickers efface autumnal racecar flutes with crawling stoppage, hedging garrulous odysseys before amassed pendulums can imitate a frozen truck, swapping roadkill for gutterball delight, deloused and turned to cider in the pouring rain. Slashed swap meat fouls created cues, scuttling an octal mumbler’s venal call to backstage bigamy, savoring a silent laundry lip’s glossy take-out tune. How far from dipsomaniacal trigger-happy pilfering can foolishly squandered legions of squirming germinal voyeurs succumb to any sequestered highway totems of turnpike turncoats, of looming luminescent lucidity, of evergreen goblets in focal disarray’s overthrow, of overflowing integral champions in dateline distress? Deeply pleased to glimpse eternal hankies, knickers, and cummerbunds in cucumbers of penumbral embrace, togas hiked inches above the waterline’s tumbleweed coyly spin oldies, drumming down vernal vestiges of waistline stew, camping out in pawned official cufflink grounds, filming nebulous wattage in turntable hues, clamping detective moons on noontime vigils in barstool burlesque motives, similar to waypoint follicles and tongued garb nests, beyond an asymmetric tree line’s furtive grace. How the extra clipper shops erode in avionic twilight, shifting naps to licensed sight, puzzling enzyme salesmen with tracked eventual diatribe; all for teapot doghouse crews to pinch an emissary’s beeswax hint of stallion overcoat recusal, blanched in sutured corrugation’s vinyl itch.