i – A Load of Sacred Crows

(Formerly in Israel, when a man went to inquire of God, he used to say, “Come, and let us go to the seer,” for he who is called a prophet now was formerly called a seer.) [I Samuel 9:9 (NAS)].

i — A Load of Sacred Crows.

           Through an unusually exhumed miasma, luring measly finth onto minor webs of salinity, Thebes fenced off areas and drained, wherever convenient, a fresher sage rinse about to deprive lorikeets from the swift cheap veranda.

          Under thin flues of at once karaoke defenestrations, the Catskill Chorus, stashing risqué honeymoon noises of ennui, sickened pullets when exiled lift station ice floes clunked against falconry healing arts.

          Note Daddy flipped the roach jubilantly. Hitherto, his capriciously reverberating riffs, sloshing the grotesque bounds of feverish shockabilly, had over wired the B–flats in swimming mezzoforte: snoring now against enthused postillion infra–eglantine swan divers, as tidily a setup as resented by Cat Mon, a measurable ditty adjudicator for the Morning Face, which, in many opinions, either knew when a lodge was mostly last in line, or escalated tsouris from sifting through stevedore coattail acts.

          His waistband heaved with old sideaches. After that first toaster cruller hit the spot, that dipsomaniac maverick sprawled face first into the past tense hoity–toitily, a tough sell audibly in matchbook trademarks.

          The stars had rusted out while a simply Swiss marimba eye dimwit cannily sprayed fissile sculptures. She slyly idealized enough rabid reindeer contraptions for these telltale limeys who’d written Sanskrit send–ups of Tertullianic hype. It took a fine howdy doody to stand up to one’s peers and protest against for sale signs on the brazen frog vapor beach.

          Ever since diving homestead values down, a scant Ho Chi Minh idea resonated, very militantly average, about reframing Theda’s nightmare into the calm wastes of Bhagavadgitian economy.

*        *        *

          Sensing a timid cameo throughout the leery raft anon, the Erlking scared ditto feisty towns here into heaven and left, ever wistfully soloing, “these unlamely chips were wild fun about five minutes after a lithe fleet humane coiling mouse mass fainted hurriedly at sushi moccasins,” before old wrung out theosophists, who had alternated clenching hit me certificates because of Note Daddy’s downtown meta–divot etudes, threw wearisome stoplights at heffalumps in tight flannel thatched gowns, or pretended to be mad about each Dancercise lesson getting loud with 77 echo finth.

          “Rarely had retributions grinned so Delphic as those gals we short–sheeted,” Flip said, recovering from long distance romance. Mosh pits of talent wore impermeably urbane pagoda threads, a starry ghost which few coin–operated weekend foreign directors of legendary ripcord theater companies could endorse.

          A wasteful feather machine, that they had given up as dead, taped casual svelte fests for each careful precursor, and indeed crammed anchovies for Cat Mon, the better to foolscap really gauche linguini.

          Heretofore bombarded by a crush of indigent snailers, the weird mostly upper crusts laughed with them so merrily, inciting odd bossiness on a dangling skein down to their toes. Who’d sprayed tacit, but too soon florid, ethers at all ululators, drip-dried miasmic oboe grooming of the buckaroos, and slurred, “hat’s off to the guttersnipe?”

          They yearned to sack the pending segues. A terse, feral, skewed argot Hottentot overdid scare tactics, too fond of vast hens mimed to feign ridicule of Note Daddy’s unremarked mahogany, because, if one rude bandwidth had unthreaded Thebes’ echoes for Lent, many smatterings of inhibited flappers would have petitioned for moisturizers to access the cast of Chadonis. A little off key rasta foppishly romped on these intuitions, but only came off at night once.

Sunday, ‎August 31, 2008 5:50:43 PM.

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