Motorboat Skeet

by John Pursch

Quota blur mechanics speak of pedaling teachers, handing over a crude penchant for rubber trousers. Cataract earrings splice wounded carriers into airborne seals, auguring for wedged puppy tracts in Ecuadorian breakfast treats. Orthotic gremlins cache windy tins of static, rehearsing tensile drone retorts for plural motorboat skeet, keen on trance rotors. Fairies embalm a teething gym’s lantern patrol, engaging trillions of ghoulish petticoat stands, stammering in spring confusion. Thermal paper shoots its renal underpinnings over crested bonfire glutes, singeing a hearty lioness, urging tollhouse cronies to heap our cruisers into shuttlecock rafts. Dental hatches careen through closeted pleasure fonts, racing childhood grease to the pulpit for wrestling martyr noise. Sandwich pylons crease intended birthright nudes, flexing hillocks of crosstown plaintiffs, snapping off a lollipop. Dueling cat tobacco feet launder blue Sunday emetics, rinsing a yawn with term limit wobbles, squeezing left-handed rugs, cracking up a knuckler.