Fifths of Krazy Glue

by John Pursch

Breathing counterclockwise, rainy trachea elapse in tone-deaf parimutuel flagons, sipping trance leaves from strafing merit gazes, hopped by well-wishing neutrality clunkers. Quail kit stimuli crawl by in sanguine prosody, axing stevedores to reason between stone Raisinets, shopping jobbed slobberers for parietal notaries. Moons might imagine caressed incendiary prelates, dressed to nightly vestibules, oft recalled in reliquary wharf debris, but phonic tantrums never munch on new romantic rheumatoid insecticide, gearing off for hardy artisans of a wayward swordfish debutante’s beveled hairdo. Polenta maneuvers to atonal squadron gel, bingeing on harried ghost decrees, swallowing poltroon keys when octagons illuminate symmetric cocoa feet from barfly towel ingredients. Degradation leers at ogling herds of ghoulish curls, flipping loaves in shark tomato crests, posing as drawn dirigible deflection dolts. The wheel of eaten elves emerges unscathed, whether wisps wallow well within waddling wainscoting, willy-nilly or unauthorized by folly’s floozy emblems. She pickled dandy twirler bills, whittling teeth to golden sandstone tufa mutes, splashed in coldly catalyzed empties of onset exposure claws. Hats flew at stiff mustard flagpole locket box melt, passing for steadily secreting monuments of lonely movie starlet juice, pleading fifths of Krazy Glue in lockjaw’s variance before the bellbottom’s woozy boss, filched to igloo heat by antediluvian luge scenes. Pocked intangibles demote commodity praise to well-worn indemnity’s unsurpassed cough, echoed throughout Estonia’s ill-timed crony broth refusal, despite a strip club’s ringing pheromone retrieval spigot.