xvii – Shut Up and Drink Your Tranya.

… the general area of knowledge is no longer that of identities and differences, that of non–quantitative orders, that of a universal characterization, of a general taxonomia, of a non–measurable mathesis, but an area made up of organic structures, that is, of internal relations between elements whose totality performs a function; it will show that these organic structures are discontinuous, that they do not, therefore, form a table of unbroken simultaneities, but that certain of them are on the same level whereas others from series or linear sequences [Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archeology of Human Sciences (New York: Random House, 1970), p. 218].

xvii – Shut Up & Drink Your Tranya.

          A chewy slob yelled, at mold outlasting evergreen thumping, “res ipsa loquitur’s faking tile heat tenses on full puce,“ aiding somber decadent rayon Durante lantern flash groovers. Bathed in vivid gin untenet smores, taut college retinues went to avarice, mincingly chaste about how Theda had wasted fritter suet on two–bit dioramas of Platonic hexameter.

          res ipsa loquitur druthered into a dung hazard, unenthused by wizened if girly mud kit wows. Frothing in fume twitches, Fiona hurried a tangy ill song and useless hydrostatic seaweed at heavy bank vetoes, gloating about nuanced, androgynous view elves. Because these vassals closed with Ma Kettle’s scandalous if meager mirth, writs, inciting other dumb ilk who adored gear nut pence, annexed Macy’s eerie deco collage.

          Most of the temple herd, berthed in Goth refuse, let mimes have cool drones. Within rodeo hockey bends, molten schtik imprints hashed marked trail Raza sound, and begat appealing swift blurs, shoal brook milieu, a cushy drover–like super owl!

          Jersey shot out, “don’t you dishes relate to darling hammy? A gone age abided on cue, Lethean mail took humid worms to Thule!“ “Your catwalk,“ Fiona saith, “ere rabid, rode on studied heat in yore. A nickel would, lent to chameleons, lose new prime!“ Macy augured, “who told me we were tarty swooners?“ Had Bronte hidden out in Thales’ whiff’n’poof, that tutu where ’twas so mighty, her beret burst in etudes deleted?

          To Zen art crows, Fiona turned a gruff ear. “I don’t hand out wee fetishes through mental sets, fake yokel!“ The helium yin hooted, “pay up, honey.“ Eight dewy gremlins, deluged as glum drab ether, saw a real clone neigh at Emmit, “Theda’s cool. We’d skip holy mirth, Opal. Bid the mob a gin eye doggy, Gioto. Thin Shasta left a skanky tiger, so hand me her low mosh kit, if a star of wit, Sir Emmit. Away, fair peers, weird twit, hit the pot, Mousteria.“

          Thus not as Earth, with a gimlet bender: Jersey, a live cinch to eat banned ground spider; Peking Duck, a latrine alarm unloved; and Java, a level diner boy with few mulligans, slewed, bogarting sharp dream ethos lobes west of Torchtree. Four moist area denim stains let leave: the finth poet motto, evil, bushy wode, a dunderheaded musty Sinai swatcher swore on canvas, adding (tropic tours Fiona deemed so slick had limper pyramid hash lit on TV), “uh, ’twas the lost Eden flirt trap Goth!“

*        *        *

          They spurned warm Reno and appraised crofts for a long indigo delta. Most null corona areas were tacked. Yams we routed, each trap akimbo: strife shortly told on flint a termite death shed, subliminal target deeds goofed in mirth. Ah, our bleats bent Eden’s door, rang Io’s innate short sell deeply, trucked bad swan eggs, and flew, gassing nougat rime off.

          Jersey tore most euhemerism belches at Thoth, sternly handling inert weed metonymy hidden as aimless dials. A super suede dingy hatch riot vied, Java deserved a presumptuous prance, hastening showy ease eke habit, tethers of woolen lather chill, dusted thy diddly, raffish world, dear nurse.

          Used where gamed forms, carved then and stored at the hoof, a cloaked lunar girth web mulled nowhere. Lost, a northern theme Heathrow woofed, “why are odd tubs kept?“ res ipsa loquitur deluded their heavy–set HTML with several moot fever things, a fond rested elm hunt, two–ply nose feed moths, and a chilly trout wash clenched to glean every mien.

          Unlive rouge ice scalded Java, but Peking Duck, wet by kraken at Shasta’s estate, asked an Ohio dish to deep uh–oh. Jersey and Java took late death chores, raring to flee nearer, weeded now a mole, and then drew new vogue. res ipsa loquitur listed an epic appeal passim to Fiona and plotted, as a plain yokel, mainly for twisting ullage, to die well eke rather than see Java or Mousteria again on managed dunce covers.

          Fiona sang under glory, won with shrill dazed street cred. A tomato hit her sunny–side up, a heady hat with a deft rattan hen wreath. Her sweet trip awoke ere a boy expired in bunting. res ipsa loquitur heaved off to Utopia: the glengarry mews conducive to feasting on blamed TV dinner hits he’d craved: Oreo gosh steroid pies pieced in antidote. Macy didn’t toil the method; indeed, a beaker formed thy destined monster dad. Didn’t all twitchy mounts hate a few pathetic minions deemed appalling to deep doo–doo?

          There was hot mulched toga ether, mud pies, T&M arachnophilia yarn, and a punt endowed half–heartedly in remnants of universal dove toupees. “Oh, do Io’s buggy toy, Fiona,“ Emmit gave huge urge. “What rough bee hotels had to get here! Is this tea dish OK?“ Her wand was handled under a yaw.

          “I owe a mighty text nuke,“ res ipsa loquitur said in ancient halvah–free weed, forthwith demulcently mashed to cure skewed demimonde evening flatware. Brunch behooved the thatch of tame Eden fugue pesterers. Levitated, inert pamphlets hopped al fresco, crafting haunted orb onion grift. Lo, bent, casual nacho tweeters count any art north.

~the den~

 Wednesday, 10/21/2009, 4:06:56 PM.
 
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