xvii – Glute Reversals Spook Alias Hulas.

A huge and in its way a varied aggregation, without traceable lines, divinable direction, effect of composition, the mere number of its pieces, the great dump of its material, together with the fact that here and there in the miscellany, as with the value of bits of marble or porphyry, fine elements shine out, it keeps us standing and waiting to the end — [Henry James, “The New Novel,” in Essays on Literature (NY: Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., 1984), p. 136].

xvii — Glute Reversals Spook Alias Hulas.

           “Forasmuch is schtik,” a pepper Norn neutered, “a hatter search pole law then, uh, Opal and Feet brewed big eyes as beers while woebegone, drawing straws quietly either time.” A wet swain vied for fun red wine hotels when earthy wee ego, weeping into the sun tub, evinced our oval feeds — ‘twas nice air, aught down within.

          Wild salads breveted, their yoga toy nightwear for a dame not in, proper front tots awoke in Thales’ thirstier bug, semi–adobe, and did finth slurry cloves, forever dismal as neat lacunae held Io within mule doles! There went forth steep givens on fleet bromine.

          “Didn’t women ice me, skirting either whale into a zine of our staid band gas?” “Sure, Io told new vault caulkers that phylo–evincement had a colonic for spume mottos of pillow terror.” Even hyper–geode, a three inning cadre, Io, a rugrat, now met a moodily hip Barbary wife hired to countenance both magnet groove.

          Hated iotas aside, a long stem wax tossed, yet perhaps like fringe troll feathers, the scene for queer croons melting unwide doodles, it jibed not more syrup heap if nice Toto put on a hot time in the ocean. Even foisting tenable months at wire–thin svelte elf finagles stretched a shady naif ding–dong.

          Feet and Io plaidly kicked ratebugs that wetting. Here, host wonks flushed oily hotel roof hemlock unto beech DNA, and the weed fairy’s northeastern edge shop to–let; and then jet vandals came, dawning to bean forth in Dante’s Reality.

          A mugged tangent pelted sisterly new tango in sly miters, green taffy, or neon thrust, nerved in an owl egg collage of ethos. Chutzpah city, aside true finery in more lame, Io dryly braced for Wanderlust at a pool entropy multi–heat, teeming with award: “Mere thin tiny I, hastening most mad, a Che Guevara toffee tint.”

*        *        *

          Emmit’s brave duck was bothered to laminate Toto’s right toe, when no daisy as edgy tethered army larva AI. Feet and Io milked a crate push, on pet mode, ere over nicotine. Off UV, a colony galore twitching sun deals, wet, sopped, and flushed in clinging REM star beams, hens let nearly ten mice bond: i.e., phase–proof grime Reubens met Theda’s honey fish, Uther.

          “Le plane awry, I’ve steamed 21 Thummim, so why talk in doggy Buick,” Emmit outgrabed? A bumbly feed train groped to let a fan quote a tiny rabid long cat, Fast Eddie, logging into spider shop intinction. “Rotter, brace the percale tweed voted life’s foxtit and study Messiah.”

          Built tandem choice ibid within both great fates, Io, in a local tooth tree smoke, leaping at Goth worm in gin, blurred Feet’s cameo, Hi, Plucky Quid Ben, and the planet left a wookie thump fob. Furlongs below, a seer swerved, “live railers of animated trek were so England.”

          A nice stretch at non–talc homely flora sent few finth mules back into dull ewe moon ice. Io primly exhumed any pectin fix tea. If elf–like, a truer ego ran, but Io telephoned the Nintendo ‘tater quip sites. Her potless binge try gave a tough swing to the smog, and she hid a rodeo cow pie too tidily. “‘twas quaint geese on mint, and some green idea oasis is ahoy, milady, total either the exec man and see such beds!”

          Jihad meant an Indian familiarity, rococo as only a blind out over the water, love in an inn, closed vaults noting a giardia luau bit. On spring rolls twitched every REM indeed. The werefly, a long black gingko, etc., hovered in a Karman Ghia fad forced on hazy Zelda every ill stint.

          Feet pined out more sowing colonists, mumbling with free pep under a stout steam hull, hitting burnt cloth sheets, unencumbered out by a pronto art to ruin. How quickly their sundown–blown Interfaith West, neo–Etonian fields in a wearying dash, and they banned over–age corner oiling.

*        *        *

          Proust chaperoned a hair profit. Ill at odd angels, the ad lib lurid mafia gas tangently screwed, a maiden skimmed in gleeful Gummy Vino Land, and as the angels neared, negotiating newer liens, hives rang in energies cloudier than wreath dew radar, bear cotton candy, delight he fudged off entirely.

          When tiered in tea Stetsons, national ennui dribbled grout in truth on dilly elf portions. If integrity stood at ease, shredding pixel contracts heeded before nature went demented; and an entire parlor loaf, Thou Comrade, buttered with snot as an early swan stayed inside dapper fumaroles, the five eco–nudes tweeted that chiffon put ill Feet aside, acquiescing as Proust told Zelda he’d eaten the last pog.

          A plush wig into flat top foolish, Feet still fumed, “nuggets, find how many tacit pied repos wasted a nitwit.” Hurt at his inquisition of warm beddy, they prated, “Zasu really ought to fling these tutorials far.” “Who cared?” Io weirdly flared, in UV ink, “I’m a queen again.”

          Dorothy ousted her shutout. She was a plaid yet seamy Sherpa, greenly browed in ribbons and herbiage. “We are out of space,” she said. “I WWV’ed my own stars and closed twin idols.” Vanilla gremlins verily took the naughty tea leaf hint and chortled, “threnodic wimp, to dupe Earth through a long meteor shower.”

          There went a snoring, let out to deal lagniappe at sundry known mud poets’ supple Heathrow.


7/12/2010 9:20:08 PM.