Tuesday, March 26, 2013
text || John Pursch
Ballpark magi electrify treed panthers, smile at doodling notaries, and iron over clown ingredients, sifting crass pollution sauce for mushy rheumatic cleats. Readers pose rigged meat batons as guests imply abysmal collocated chalkboards, glossy and equation-bound, planting glacial micturition darts in soiled enamoured teasers. Grails defy trinket choirs, slurring addled gnomes, spotting up motorized gang tics of ribald understatement, flopping deep caricatures for lakeside motifs.
Tocks rely on frond emoters, binding throne ejection to wheeled spasmodic grout, despite insensate normalcy’s tendentious salutation. Hives in tow surround careening plaudits, trending toward frequency pox, measurably hazy. Fools connote livid oddities, activate sequestered knuckle dimwits, and terrify a breadboard.
Stippled wherewithal mingles keyboard daylight with nonstop hammering, greasing stupas for turgid carpers on furlough from canned egress. Filial refurbishers stink of couched impasto, opting for olive ale over neuropsychiatric weed. Gender entails superficial toppings, squaring round zippers into pantyhose gazebo breezes, tumbling at noon.
Timid busts of graceful cloaks who leer at Cretan dowry fiends presume to fend for otters on pebbled croquet lawns, evaporating wayward aunts. Placid cartoons flail aback, skimping on nadir pills, plump and chesty. Numb utterances signify irate pharaohic gist, toppling cribs across encumbered gantries, flashing the blockhouse with radioactive cereal bile.