text | John Pursch

Teflon Feet

Hurling sips of linear glaze, trained wobblers freeze in mid-fall, scratching out a spare tentacle, bent on wired aquatic certainty. Who can imply the measure of a stolen placemat, urging symptoms to merge in diaphanous uterine wealth? Only the steamy portico’s moth-eaten sweatshop stew, served sewn half-shut, shipped to whirling ermines in a magical crate. Hefting a labeled trench of acidified, nuanced beer, a smiling juggler encodes his thespian lodestone with smooth regatta blues, hyping the operatic jingle’s penultimate jeer with salt and private bookings. Tasty frames of frottage frieze lose emphatic greaser sheen, pealing thunderous empires and ions of deflected birth. Topless manhole spoilers age before diurnal wrenches turn their everlasting wrists, slipping lunchbox brethren a simplified mink rooster for late onset news. Partial onlookers submerge, emptying their final rosters of spit-polish grain, parting with inseam rounders for half the usual exception. Handles feel for offhand tether pets, eking out an umbilical loaf, toiling behind a slavishly held omission. Periodic foibles purge longevity cores, irrigating marginal analysts with aqueous rubber teeth, ringing in the natal pier’s moonlit trust. Trolling doors and ranting enamel truths plaster the driveway’s guesthouse gravel, launching sensorial tonsure into blind gestational travail, whipping turbaned engineers into friend routines, engraved in vented rage. Semaphores prop up textured Mohawks, fluffed with incandescent gel, brooding over tossed and sanded witchcraft moats gone raw. Treasonous acclaim entombs a starry-eyed poltroon, lending holiday heirs to innocent barflies on hiccup patrol, cascading in burnished Teflon feet.