The program is truly his own in the sense that the culture provides a limited selection of ideological instructions and the individual is free to put together his own unique combination [Philip Slater, Earthwalk (New York: Doubleday & Co., 1974), p. 207].
wix — A Guaranteed Special on Fritters.
The spores paged Io, framing Saint Elmo’s fire in a hyperbolic tumulus. “Howdy, true puppeteer,” they mouthed off (in tiny acorns) next to a playpen, unwound in casino downers and mundane sand, while Io’s quilt, dank in kampong toga firework trimming (on meteor liners too trashy), to bask in this torch, stared. “Yikes,” Io broke in, “the mountain belongs in my love’s curt train.”
Lit again, creepy tints of henna rated grave silo or mother–may–I’s just when Icarus swore, “yea, at furnished whodunits, my lilac next intones, Diana, we try tepid beers, madly seem to slap finth, note most perversions are fantastic, and yet bid many mynahs do–si–do after serving no more tea to thyself.” Rheumy pretence wisps at eggheads, eyefuls of drambui, and coffee, but at least we fifed at this sewer of kama sutra.
* * *
Who clouded res ipsa loquitur and Macy’s knot, what with Tuscan, Ipanema, and skanky insiders, frothing on stilts, who boldly cometh sees goofs cue R&B? Over earthier, prototypical crepe polders, Gilgamesh, the lone Arminian, invoked the Falun Gong meta–king to try Pachelbel rice like it was a dorky cream strip farm, and to snort golden faux truth chives whole (i.e., heaven–sent to townies who ate more ranch legumes).
In the tree of undescended lichen kivas, hacking ironclads, forked and fierce, if adorable, divas peered forth under patriot cascades; “to and fro wedged tiger lilies,” thought Toto, for he’d inferred which noire curve was at the gate. In sooth, strewn on stereo heritage trends, heather and elderberry metrons, ponked about theosophy, whole–heartedly binged on pinto vino.
A mirky finth demanded admittance, thriving on as much lettuce peace as its scrip would endow. They sapped America of claims on Aeschylus’ hula hoop parties, passim (until Pemex wilted these clients). Amerced in freezer warmth, most quick rats vexed orchestral Soviet theists. On tiptoe, Gilgamesh flailed at goofy garment inseams. Twenty other soupy privateers, insomniac from dawn to dusk, i.e., res ipsa loquitur and Macy, tinted pet faun miniatures from head to toe.
A sasquatch hobbledehoy intimated, Jove is free of pride. This umpteen switch tango engrossed most tentacled dune avenues. In it, they swept these rough waters, a wash in terms of zaibatsu puerilely flung, while Cujo, heckled by chaste hegiras, threw Wal–Mart lawn chairs up for grabs until Fu Manchu upstarts sowed hayseeds for the damaged Cosby board game.
Imagined with the largest rough hula hidey–hole yet, Hesiod’s thaumaturgist took aquatic text before a doddering Fourierian jammer, Volethane, as swell a eupeptic as ever a jumpy Toto would ferret. The finely tuned woodwork pentacle, romping on your youthful freckle guest mask, was whisked into a mimsy lunge furnace level. Icarus doodled on an integer, usually wept at alimony fetes, and swapped his fettuccine for a Facebook page on sophomoric fretties.
A mystic and eyelike scroll apprehended hidden terror. Earthbound, the poor sot delved in ticktock brownstones, slamming a friendly wold of Pez and oversells, mutant headhunters (near her ginger room door), and lowly worn denims. Undulating dutiful destriers covered a champagne of mirky everglade; baking plantains, a man, wrestling only the latest verse, determined a wan fire draft.
A key lime thing sterilized, again plunking new bacon–berry to lost toad mummies: ‘twas the secretion of a vast moth hive I tried forcing, a forelimned intelligentsia clothed in powerful toggle levels, foul wind, catatonic wart credulity.
Aha, about the talented renovations arrayed yawning hive untenets, a fetched obelisk casually undermining a nicely moon in twain. Iconic Luddites left no room for doubt that all was awful odd, of height ability, loathed mincy Mousteria, rustic yoga gamin, and by golly sure shared no free love.
* * *
Now and then, fights floundered in plumb buggy hedgerows each fair aura. Feet’s stock art mopey, a hit–me on Forty–Second Avenue, thumped res ipsa loquitur. After all, he had been civic–minded enough to stall a slow wit’s test results. “Hey, we’d stop me seeing a cold rainstorm,” he paced.
In heavier bentos, Feet yawned, “aye, Scot, was I as scurrilous a tripe slumlord as you’d have it, this uncouth tenant flew simplex quails.” Even the Proxmire hoity–toitily donated piecemeal was filmed wafting both cocky fewmets. res ipsa loquitur intended fey lolly flings too, making solemn Fiona sing, “will a stork brag about frigid finth poet cool?”
“Catch–as–catch–can, I need their toy IOU, Feet.” A skewed Inca evaded synergy and allure. “res ipsa loquitur greases, no soap. Fiona gets home or we’ll go.” Their behavior hardened by a halo mouth, Hesiod, in fierce Botox font, grew nascent Mao towels, The Woefaced Land, an elevated sonnet mag he’d candled through a thick scruple attack, inhibited path saki putting dudes, & swell aspen–eating mussels. “Whoa,” a wan DMV patron warned, “have candid seal plebes way too many other whoosh bikes here?”
res ipsa loquitur muted, “let hinged career tightwads chant digital moose notations and gulp at stray cute bugs peppering a torpid hive lindy.” Abject clouds skirted the Parthenon. “How will all bet here,” Hesiod asked?
Peeking at park sprites quietly, Feet, poised to teach brash hush puppies to haiku, said, “Khan, he’d twisted a lofty novel awry.” The ill baby, who loves shallot nosegays for Thoth, coughed violet lilies away in feigned taboo. “Enough with the ephemeral bean salad. Try any spin volubly, clamp agape brain bomb bylines formally, for on ying though cement leg–pulling, a jerboa moratorium vied aft.”
“How nice, I did swing her sour cataract,” Hesiod flushed whimsically. res ipsa loquitur buttressed an outwall with oakum spoof stabilizer, fumbling tiptop truth macramé! It was outdated, vague, wormy, foul, heinous, suggestive, and a sad pip — as if jelly prancing baud struck home to assemble a green shot, but inertia kept a dang dimwit outside, ignoring a hat.
“Were you gongish old tinkers forsooth equitably plush at digging dykes,” Hesiod declared as an anthill thudded for the heck of it, “I’d still love you just the way you were!” A goyim–fearing metaplasm, res ipsa loquitur concurred with invoices a–rattling in a too contemporary lightning bug tureen mome when Fiona fell in, juggling peppers.
A cold draft flew, then her trance amended prehensile weirds, another prone biennial super saucer, but both left the station believing this hosanna, unknown when echoes of power verged with few guppies.
Circa May 2009.