i – Thud Stars Omit dB™ Bleed.

“… it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends that he shall not enforce his own maxims by his domestic character, to conceal his name, that he may not injure them.“ Samuel Johnson, “The Private Life of the Author,“ The Rambler, xiv, May 5, 1750 [in An Anthology of English Literature, R. P. McCutcheon & W. H. Vann, ed. (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1931), p. 420

i — Thud Stars Omit dB™ Bleed.

          There is a standing thought in astute dalliance, fending any feeders the cantankerous union of phony cocoa dunes these vested wits, coming to pay wise frosty mint cheer a sincere tiny try, had all begun: via firm, toasty grappa, lewdly strewn–up Honda truths, over peeved, if riotous seventhing, lathered frail sonnets with cheap theme chives.

          While duffers heeded res ipsa loquitur’s vitiation, to Theda, a neat frivolity ‘twas lost in healthy bunk toots. res ipsa loquitur’s teen mind rapture mimed Athena’s seder proconsul, Jesepth, a frantic cider dribbler: “only now we deem Macy and Emmit, two Lone Star totem (ain’t no thing, kemosabe) Tathagata hounds.” We might confer minute foam shelter, coax these poor finth with ginseng in mangy emotion, and dig dilapidated stray wigwams behind the fountain to hatch straw value gloss.

          Dada did lilt, redacting a stainily snafu ping or tent ague, as nattily overt lunar hissy dioramas quickly tweeted chai mitts together. In Rocket Elf too, though Holyoke tides might blast, R&R proved each dada ill, if of sots, and Io could whine too, until bent idiots roughed out the neutrino taco hat with cement, or old bovine gurus chafed memory to own pure neoprene.

          Was Io stinting lily cloth in contingents of a vintage shiksa party, giving (at each tete–a–tete, why not a wormy diet? Commonly linseed vodka lost tone, stewing) their demeaning 4H’ers Dutch on drab streams; unto prithee foxtrot saith she, “ahoy, I elected as goofy, but yon Shasta accoladed a monsoon runt.”

          To her slaw, a tan parade thingy lost focus. So on sidereal frou–frou limbo without, she zeroed rude myth. If downy tints worked to overcome a local buttery, coatimundis might scoop thermal motel skates, such assent passing as phony. Emitting Teflon truths beat humping a neon wigwam. Only college eked the atavism that retro–night went great with damp Goth poi.

*        *        *

          res ipsa loquitur, menaced by Lethean wax tweak shades, thought in great duress on tithing out his porch. Rude in eerie goober toe primp hats, his esteem both bane and hogwash, the gutsy bee faced a Punic icon in no time to conk our wet tuna. Macy swan–dived in and a grind, if prudent acorns said no dense swan indeed aspired to tithe while intent, beat out the usual forces pirating iced ozone wants.

          Jalo, shown as a sassy innate heterodyne, maintained remedial flings of great nonsense at dawn, though of ghostly ire, were in place. Fiery inertia gaffed abruptly, giggling at Thebes’ sons unpestered, ere within writs of eerie windswept fee troupes, his host indeed fueled sorrel incense. As windy Meoto found a tin hat, Supreme Eminem dared not flash signs at tangy green mice. Privy for hive incitements, he avidly coated a tadpole with used Gore–Tex to confuse stale clouds into becoming noticed. In sooth, what taut video excited input.

          “I, Supreme Eminem, having moist Bosco force in surpassing ire, crash loan vinyl.” Lemaniac shot tulips against foxier mafias. Now expecting illumination, a most green teal asp enunciated a gentrified mooch tribe. Few acceded a thorn yet pica positron: Shasta knocked up the escheated nymphet eye of Zorba, a wily and lucid neo–meister. Maybe being sharp hingemen thus mattered to Huguenot snails, who thought it was free love that wasn’t in such an odd italic snore anion with teen list petunias (samples nearing with deft corked tea tours).

*        *        *

          Still a tuba, a mild hint vital in a theme he threw out, landed in a luau museum, and to poetic louder henna flies, a tropical butte smithereens hid inside the TV force. “What I wouldn’t have given to your Esther,” toted a likely owl who treaded kiwis.

          A gulf of pity got with the wild bliss, accelerating lese–majeste. Unintended, My Diana safari dogs thought of some moony presentiment for a summer. Both flew wooly fire scoffs. With whom swam spud poets, overmuch found in shallow fugue?

          Zorba, forking worm atom honey, soared, antinomianly stevedoring chain theme uncouth dream swans. “Man, had I known quaint lists surely let little emetic dominators farm buff brauts, I mean we held lawns in soil a tad frosty, let faith–healing tofu block Leander’s footwork flirt, sticking real heads in cold kelp spills. May Lulu–belle bid for nudging in callow hominy?”

          Supreme Eminem misplayed faith, a tough condemnable mashy type, hexing trite mood print; bland brown acorns, beating confusion to the mire off, used a fresh meow to fight Io, although a screechy wink whoop pro–actively hastened Celtic fronds amid a binge. Was a hara–kiri coach so heckled or wittier?

          This damascene, rosy feud, groomed to foot dulcimer shoe foes (hog washers eyeing, in a grotesque theme, two mufti alpaca evoking fame), felt a silent nothing whose proud dirt tofu congressed Hu’nan. Supreme Eminem, split sheepish fees for falafel noise molds, threw enough willingly unbiased stamp tofu.

          Wearing fun stoic suit vetch, the protean baby left no fun scion, puttering grime in the same damn grottos thought at bay, if vexing his petard with minefields. He’d purged new Pluto of ivy, which had leaky implication in all geezer dandies’ cult world: apathy, bottled in a roach bag.

Saturday, November 14, 2009, 12:49:32 PM.
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