Ninnies For Nembutal

 by John Pursch

Trembling hands disintegrate, smearing tracks of railyard brew with freezing flames of heifer creeds, enduring worn ousters for a crouton’s coup d’etat. Nether spans collapse beneath abridged motel bibles, spelling interred subterranean caramel, left tasty to the tailored sidecar’s perennial noontime gaze. Whoever beats stationary oglers to the crass empirical pate will shore up endothermic hopscotch for quartile pummeling clues. Everlasting bailiffs anodize contemporary weeds, polling choice musical felons for broken dreamboat laughter, speckled in spates of neural goo. Harkening to aging thematic tundra pence, a sagging ruler spins dynamic prodders to seize a chartered mastermind’s proper verbal cruncher, sticking sworn mastiffs with problematic necks. Wholistic petrochemical Romans eat their frugal measure of oath cartoons and prison yeast, casting ninnies for Nembutal. Sectarian yellers preen till jesters mingle in a gaseous act of wilting plunder, grafting durable clatter to crow carnage. Bills imply swank estuary heat, chilling her monastic sandbags, crusty and overlooked. It only took two sidebars to case the cordoned endive’s feral barge, sending analytic bobby socks to bat for pledged technocrats on the lambasting chute’s proven semaphore, glimpsing terrier myths in a microscopic pinch. Even so, cabbies begin the year with gravel-given greatcoats, speaking in statutory airs, charging halting time for any glutamine freak’s glass eyepiece.