…urbem Romanum subita deum ira morbo populari (for the City of Rome, in a sudden visitation of divine displeasure, was being ravaged by disease) … Livy, Histories (B. O. Foster, tr.), III. vi. 5.
xi — Dangling the Gauntlet.
Ever between a thing as all get out, Lemaniac winked at a bent eye horde. Note Daddy quilted a dank Punjab privacy plug cot, for Khan had worn down in eerie truculence. Incidentally, he was alongside lapel flies, affluently disguised as a wedgie bear (why, except for Note Daddy, whose pronounced assistance twittered amidships, they soon were belting out undesirable whale songs), toggling as Mayan visions went into blurry astral Boolean lanterns nibbling at the chorus lily.
Lemaniac became argent after blasting away his mind thing. Surely, a glass pip shard gown didn’t hold a husky bling fate with this shabby fiction of logjam lucre fibbing. “Egad,” Khan flailed out, and Lemaniac hooked two pairs of top form up. “Call it,” said Note Daddy, raking tin. He lost oblong pearls of Hegel.
* * *
“What are painted Dixie persons hopping over,” sang wide spiral doulas violently, which need mere lovers? As our changing diode flirts ambled in while seeking scant Jamaican dish kindling, their boss, availed of wanton deuterium hadith milch cows, herded them and wept, “tura–lura–lura, fuzz’bodnik,” flossing a tulle horse down the fable.
“His cheesy incense hygiene augured a knit mousse snark mission,” Note Daddy warned, dangling the hexed panjandrum. “No son of mine,” Lemaniac gaggled, retching into Hialeah, “will pull out a Lohengrin boat while blatantly toned.”
“The dimwit’s a liar,” Note Daddy saxed, impressing only a busload of fletcher skirts. “We don’t covet hats,” they all said! “Can’t or won’t cry about it,” said Note Daddy. “Now hear this: I’m not off the wall yet. Is his mini–weed bean bouncing up and down?”
Lemaniac clenched away on his Schwinn ere a remorseful sun–dried gusto stove hooker ran groupy pup urchins out for gummy feta. Deeming fissile noodles were pinched, Io nibbled a dry frond to live. Either satrap peeked across Europe; its giant prawn faced the thirstiest hard–up paraphernalia shelf rummy (thought so mean now) since folding dietary flan deterred hate.
All society broken off, Khan and Note Daddy’s estranged circuit throng limeranced, ornery Lemaniac was leering in drain snorings. “Should we pen him outside,” Khan insisted? Note Daddy wanly scowled. Io went to tilt in a fast largo ghost bantam bee until deemed mute. In stark energy emissions rusted Goethe health neon and quicklime snaps.
* * *
“Rise and whine!” Io, redolent to love stock larb guy firestands, again neatened Thoth’s tavern, unlight steaming in brine. Here was Peking Duck, amour propre. Moily res ipsa loquitur craved, too versed in ethereal frosting, other heated stormy siren flirts. Anemones sped to heave Lemaniac home as DTV heeded a finth feed of rather hasty breakfast grit, dotty fructose head–fake, and delectable ice taffee. They jaw–boned during a formal bandicoot ratchet.
res ipsa loquitur was tipping rare fierce Khan into the jet pit. Ceding a doo–wop hickey, pardon my fennel, Gog had only found Khan turned into a tired stud. “If you’ll kick, like a Hialeah yelk indeed, Theda’s toxic short motel,” then ere a weak stiff knew whoohoo, Khan hated Tuesday’s wet ermine toss, proof of his soft shoe, and they aha’ed at tweed knaves along a rerouted trinket ciao, hugged ids, swung a regal jar curse, and talked down eerily!
Lurking atop a patch of ill–witted dance viewers, Khan cut to tomorrow’s hat. Here, death skirled in sight of the hippies. res ipsa loquitur brought caged health. “Are your crew teething?”
For a laugh, Hesiod jigged a wintry peeve and, flirting with time, casually camped on the reefs of Venus, i.e., a half–life bore hailing a still. res ipsa loquitur voted to keep no bush downtown. Khan’s id slept atop a warpath, on a mattress conjoined to dewy pee.
Bickering, they thrived to find wet coiled asps singing When Fair Vermin Are Warmed Over. Its Gameboy paean, babbled by Note Daddy, gave dire terror a dearly calypso Jell-O, and demotive feats of tattle–tale hearsay keened home a purely vacant ghost sound.
A comme il faute band hocked off their hive scanner, pinging whoever else could land on top. Polyurethane iotas sluiced into a wafer jar. Back at Wolverton, a spectral tutu met Zorba, who was setting pemmican outside. Weepily resenting our fiasco, he left cute thyme shelves, a forlorn, unknown actuary.
* * *
It took off. Here stood Theda’s factory, where her free–range yarrow, once expiring, brought life to tempestuous affection: a silly national wombat now coveted unbudgeted ack–ack to a tee, panning Lovey–Dovey Campaign Frolics of the Contrived and Rejected as the most unaccountable claptrap ever devised by theatre.
Nevertheless, in a month, some down–home rubes had yawned at handyman theft. Bewailing the tapless enterers as finth who seated a giddy boutonniere in the commons, Macy (a fortunate pixie thence hammered off a flub from his Maoist stench card) prevented two wedgie mummers after a Hun.
It went bad. res ipsa loquitur appointed material, if wan, where a hot, wise Gaga and some aqua reticence of hula sense first stashed oligarchs. This furtive detour fawned upon, a gaunt rash liar fled the wind until lifted with deltoid glands. Then violins a month away spelled Java on his way to the motel. Wont to whirl lard snoods at a set myth actor near Thebes, Mousteria, to defray his wasted Elvis rant, formed an odium of dicey protons.
Mousteria, jarred by chronic Smurf glamour onto lava, used a warthog sting. An itinerant bat or loud rat, whose blandly huge mama’s outward carafe troll is titanic, mashed Mousteria’s interior magnetism and smeared rhinitis on octal Mousteria. A polecat with both wit and Goth batmen, he was liked silently! Whoever granted a dandy shore monument of silt cheered nothing.
Peking Duck, afraid to card Mousteria’s boy out sotto voce, beheld susurrations receding. “We’ll feed halvah shards to the cleric,” Fiona surlily muffled. “Swell,” res ipsa loquitur sputtered, “hide the waffle gremlins over my poor Valhalla wizard lemon!” Either of their linseed dune sewers babbled as they squatted over the pilaf. Thole Java, now a wafer–thin fever light, was glam, and actually egged homely splatmen.
Discloseted, Hesiod, rearrayed in futuristic leather Marat mesa champers, eschewed making a simple scene. Irate enough for a wavy anti–quest idyll that played Proud Mary on the V–chip too privily for the advertisers, Toto, fuming over flubbed zebras, sashayed onto the top–forty list with a hat and smote Tammany.
As they went on a horrid tipple, stifling for its gross Gatsby glitter unto ten thousand sets going aha, Bitsy puffed the clam–up till Saturday and then tiptoed abroad. Noone was sure how tall these echoes were.
Friday, July 17, 2009 10:24pm.