HÆMON. A city is no city
That is of one man only.
CREON. Is not the city
Held to be his who rules it?
HÆMON. That were brave —
You, a sole monarch of an empty land!
~Sophocles, Antigone, II. ii.
vii — Literary Encore Intruded into the Nerveless Salon.
“This is so lame, mon,” Dorothy said, in traducing Meoto, a large simian they’d cherry–picked, hands down, from an upline egret herald, the Dame of Lyonesse, whose auspicious endive patch, underneath their Upanishad living room, was so rarely viewed by mimes, feigning effortless detour, who radiated heaven–sent DVD face–offs instead, that Ike, their brain child ex–halfback, paving alongside holistic Utah elves, eke idyllic as florid meandering confetti, busily arranged, between fungus–my–eyes, a vicariously blanched freak Caesar egg salad.
Hesiod’s idee fixe, a hippodrome where Cymbeline barged a foggy evening anon, abutted a tiki hut, none too Lilliputian, input to math Dorothy forth as cupidity (impending doom on government time) nimbly hexed pastures that were filmy intrigues, based on truths too huge to get airtight. She understood. Whew. Whenever bad habits threaten to unhinge natty office attire, having a clean house as such is the finth maxim.
* * *
Hesiod faced wrath, as if fear approached on Fiona’s patio.
Ahoy, to where Fiona, Macy, and res ipsa loquitur, exhilarated at birth, traipsed out, forgetting to displace a slight tangent. They uttered flexible smoke signals at incomprehensible sloths and deadpan turtles, fjording bleak chestnuts anodyned in The Daily Comet. Half human, lithely kerplunking on the arch, in patois they went, “ugh, my fat–headed Meoto, be my toxic, uh, musk, please, and get out.” Said to turn on pathos, their illegitimate anthem, banned in Thebes’ echo chambers, stood singing Chim–Chim–Aree to Toto’s teeny friend, hyper–purity, and ere foretold, a tumultuous live room did head starts to back Euro–panamints.
So plunged down were these, it was upon my word that Fannie Mae has–beens waxed to a peak, unheard of since Celine Dion returned via Toronto, and the effect helped to lift Fiona and Macy off to the palace tote. Even that dawg, LE res ipsa loquitur, was filmed with the likes of Crispy Creme.
* * *
A snow–fort, if rude, loved fierce apertures. There, escorted by firm waffle luau figure eights, was Peking Duck. res ipsa loquitur put paid to a hintermost blush, shelling out tough speeches about the soily quantity of hidden haunts, well rested enough to get men blamed for a nerdier era.
The entree, wed to estranged Caspian psyches, was nearby, timidly clad in rough mothlight. A gaping proof of sour area watch toast, so definitely wound to exploit tenterhooks, vanished. Vaguely neon, Note Daddy nudged Peking Duck noxiously in noir theatre as Fiona dissolved in chaos. Moved, Krapina towed a small clotheshorse, per se, to a barn door from Deuteronomy.
Distaste here propelled LaGuina to wildly pass the bar exam! Aside from a mood gone flat, a magical secret assurance, their hardly freed cobra dread erased slicker sheets, tiresomely being a spare gecko. Bring out this big madman who pulsed toward them, tense about rebooting both truant fruit voles: Rhodesia and Spy, halting theatrics, stank in earnest. Mousteria was a brick far and wide. Cruising the room, Jersey spent diapers on slap weed through a flute spill.
Theda smelled phonics, dunes, hashed over apples; these Krapina, strobing a feathered toccata, drank out in mobile vats, her dull crop now closed to grunting. Mousteria, in stale hoofprints of Damascene gloom, frittered into Peking Duck. Poised in the companionway, the fraught wight slammed saltpeter eponyms and thought, “since ixsnay on the eedway, that being said, these icky hams couldn’t feed a teary kayaker neither, but I have plans.”
Held in his hand, a lemon stood woebegone. “Had this wilted rhinestone two lives, get chloroformed enough to audit wallflowers, okay?” “Dude, I’m keen,” and with that, they entered the cafe. Hesiod had detoured, irate at the wheat field finish. Thick and thin, LaGuina was now advancing Krapina a swan debut of youth, caving, ere in various gasps of chic fusion, Peking Duck danced, vainly flushed, toward doors, haunted on tents of roseate mind, where his henchman hid, rafting for a few svelte but invidious odd passengers mentioned.
Heterogeneously dumb, the deprecating track habitues day–traded lard toward the tofu. Peking Duck cowered and reversed charges, often parsimonious near dealers. He met her lava swan. Deprived of laser dart weasels with fewer finth, his defeatist gigues, downsizing at an astral hitch, and thieving the nest of stiff vaporized chant cravings thither, undid that tanning patch. Mousteria reverted, not to choke off the warm Peking Duck, sharply slinging solo gins, but in case elite surface things stalked, in unison, a worthy ottoman in a novocaine barroom and then some!
Murmuring aargh, vague behemoths forthwith wheezed in eerie grief, each riboflavin inmate gamy from eating tithed Hawaiian mahi–mahi and staging yelps pewlessly. The petite spacesuits sat, wildly pulsing yippee ti–yi–yo (feeling unceasing strain, Toto braved a fierce bush, swearing that Thebes’ eighth wonder, a rhyme about beetles, ought to be wafted)!
Even in bar–time, hitherto kismet, a far cry fortified fewer mainstays, where a brilliantine fly chased in Ike the Cat Mon. A tract by the ultimate stone sent thumps inside, neither mild nor riveting cheese, so to tickle the fifth syrup fairy faster, the closet manure vendors rushed out of the amphitheater and transacted.
Circa March 2009.