The Unexciting Chronicle
of Miles Glass to His Caravan
By Miles Glass, Reality & His Imagination
minute (1)one :
A falcon-feathered grenadine syrup birdbath, they say, commingled with a flippin’ your fin-splash of mermaid honey-colored, sparkling ginger ale (a medicinal concoction, mind you, brainchild of a Doctor.) +1V.I.P. glowing ember of a crimson ghost-dot maraschino cherry, could make the mathematics and tipsy geometry of any gypsy gymnastically blush. Oh, and it mixed so well and so fine, so fresh and so clean, with the dead purple ♥ hue of medical-grade molasses swash buckling in the sunken ship of his inside vaudevillian, striped vest pocket. Where cough syrup, shave and a haircut, two bits, and dance routines go to die. When Miles bristled, his fake, exaggerated mustache bristled with him.
minute (2)two :
As he hydroplaned through jackpot jumping jacks and stacking chips, bumbling his beeline through the casino with full intent to be insanely punctual and, if not woefully on time at least near so, he kept it all together with a red thread of equilibrium and practiced fumble. She was going to leave without him. She, his matchbook dear, was going to run off if he were to be late back to the room, thrust so many floors up, up, and away. BUT! there had unfortunately been some distraction(s) and obstacle(s) during the arcade course of his jack-be-nimble odyssey.
To put it simply, there had been a gaggle of tribal belly dancers hoarded by the lustrous, distractingly lion-gold elevators, drinks in their slave-bracelet hands and sequins dotting the avian-streaks of their shamelessly multi-colored accents, bells, tassels, pin-point climaxed eyes. Peacock turbans and silver toe-ring spins and back bends. He recognized one of them from San Francisco, and she made it a necessary witchery to delightfully inform the wild plume of the curious flock that he could make a great many things disappear easily, seamlessly, and pleasantly.
He blushed and trickled into the split gray thighs of the elevator door, waving with an overflow of Shirley Temple pink and hazy cough syrup jester grinnings.
minute (3)three :
are you a
minute (4)four :
And somehow, he arrived to the room in 4 measly minutes with a pocketbook of intoxicated smiles, stinking of lemongrass, patchouli and glitter, and having gotten a hold of a circus bear which he threw directly into the exposed hole of her tent (gently and whether she was in there or not.) Announcing with a midway roar:
“I won you a prize!”
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.