. . . if a reviewer said (as was more usual, for reviewers are, taking them all in all, a kindly race), “This is a good book,” people who didn’t know any better really thought that it was so. Then the author was pleased. Particularly as the book wasn’t really good in the least. ~ Rose Macaulay, Told By an Idiot (Garden City, NY: The Dial Press, 1983 (1923)), p. 280.
xvii — Racing Thoughts of Sunset.
A teed–off, itchy Supreme Eminem, awash in barging the arduous flood, was skeptically mocking heroic ammonia tortoises near the repossessed deformation bandstand. Here, mired ad nauseum in sandy quirks, old issues and WYSIWYGs whirled.
Treeing flatulent winds, yet ignorant of drafty brash lust with merrier yams, Arbuthnot booked up the chalcedon ledge, where gassed toe tappers encoded scuttlebutt. The Supreme Eminem readily preached love, truth, and shaky daisies, as a drab idle bandwagon nearby dumped off the rare volcanic mutation. Incompletely formed, it incited a stampede, a cataract of corn snatchers who earnestly bonded over thick tanks of filmy humdingers with aesthetic swim fins.
Bounced from the precinct of a hamster, the Supreme Eminem condescended to end the use of gaga red herring as bait, as long as what some understood already was this: apostasies that offered no scary internecine stray swearing demeaned the vicarious Erlking.
“Owls, hell,” Arbuthnot howled at saline fungi. “In due course,” he depleted, “a swan chases slithy toves for kicks, daring them to court ruin and evil, in order to leap ekistic limes in time.”
The Supreme Eminem scared daffy road hits, tardily heating his elastic tights — “wear these, jester,” he adumbrated. “Whoa,” Arbuthnot confessed, “I didn’t mean to force feed that many viands to beguile the heathenry!”
Sullenly Khan Omdrum–san said, “happiest are they who farm out cruder thorns. Now wieldy fettles are my stout apathy.” Bummed out, booths of mighty tractors zoomed away.
Once more, depraved, evanescent, and deformed scarlet frappes bombed nascent Utopia as the next race tepidly flashed by. Arbuthnot recanted, treating the flimsy cures to a party over existential meager smores.
* * *
Deliverance whizzed in neon selahs. Note Daddy’s tacit folderol nixed tweakers devoid of eerie easel dibs. Lofty and true, Note Daddy beamed a dove through restive and frank casuistry; other nuncios sealed the Mostly Color Shoe Tree with an epoxy of apogeal aloe balm.
Daring the postulate of locked barns, everyone else filed out into the whoop–whoop for some arm wrestling. They were either sustained in all proper basso profundos, or tossed forever into fixed empirical shazzam gadget lounges. The sky was emprismed and shrill, and so many truly shaped mud pahoehoes receded that He loafed, still as a dense hollow keg of white noise.
A swift kick leerily, we’d venerated leisurely, nuanced, fiery tomcats, who spammed earth tone vinyl tweeters, one dash away from pantheistic hedonists, whose thawed mea culpas formed echo asteroids on the town, so old hat, more ably to quit cold divinity fudge. “Heaven isn’t good enough for you,” hissed a dilettante folk hedge. “Nothing you idiots might take with you may stay in Thebes.”
A wasp rolled out green tea mats. These bylaws, hidden in anti–ballistic seafood trout chains, withal pensively framing intimate menu cerulean skates, sounded fully revokable.
* * *
To this day, crescendo bellwethers twitter, far too grating a Piedmont warp cubic engine fizzled on a point of order, using up so many volts that, aside from bent Doppler teens, on a series of old crabapples, and a few merry finders keepers (who were scared away by lemon firetrap robins), the raft sank in inches of mud before they could give three hip hip hoorays.
Always tedious in calling dibs on the cheaply pragmatic marjoram noodle aisle, hidden wet hens deigned to know if Arbuthnot needed to send them up, albeit all that glittered wilted. Next, shipped–out Pentium windows peregrinated treble fun moons, nor were indifferent to peroxide ambience: ex–persons simply then extracted leased flimsy ghost frogs, sober, left–leaning master thin easel tinfoils, or a swift ratiocination.
Thales’ swarm of lost fidgety beasts hovered, wearing retro wigs against all odds. “Tantamount,” he warned, “we’ve beans foaming on the sunny side of the catwalk,” and more original vandals gloatingly minced out of the pent-up whereabouts with shapeless pawn tickets.
The flakier old rinks held bouncy rococo bandwidths, which foamed against unusually flaming wild dust devils. Maced with a charade of plundered couscous thrills, these fops alleged that chivalry ended amidst undeserved shalom chopper splutters, obvious to an asterix, if felt by some astral factions, as transcending pushed or shoved feasts.
A daft ersatz waltz attended swatches of clowns who bumbled and grovelled out west indecently. Thales and Arbuthnot laxly retched in ignorance for a term of pensive bliss. The reruns began before they had even ended.
circa early August 2008.