xii – Woe, Camels, She Called to Strain Fables.

I merely felt the town as a unique reality. What was it? I knew — the moon’s picture of a town. These streets with their houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of the moon’s sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by the hypnotism of moonlight [e. e. cummings, The Enormous Room (New York: Live Right, 1978), p. 39].

 xii — Whoa, Camels, She Called to Strain Fables.

           Aft, puce coupe camels battled the co–op snore at dawn: the Frederick, Khan, Feet, Flip, & Wendy F., Slam. A wily deal pew, eh? Quaint snood help iced, Lemaniac flung hits at WSU for intent clam croft here: a hyper–spa not on too frantic, he would bed in code. Thoth, ere scampering, caused bassoon facials or rather rotten beef.

          Each sap hoped for a few strained knells. Noone loved a funny Milt. Lithe Frederick covered Toto more. “Hola, mimo,” Lemaniac said to draw out–of–town Khan, and Feet wore a has–been dang at hiring these dirtier shrouds. Idealer care than listed, cunctated in pubescent links of the malty alias, Khan and Feet scabbed their muskets. Now, in few duhs, Lemaniac’s snooker got green against vino.

          “Excess mute,” Flip pouted stupidly, and nosed these Jones into pale logic when their head freak kept finest dune worm cold. Hall time, whining a sand lever is intense sin, “chatline Atlas,” Lemaniac barged, “what, these taut molds put on true dander scorned to her?” Piddle is whaled at Thebes’ orgy if tough quilts itch. He’ll form no pica pity tic into monster cha–cha (AI utility melded a Montana put triune, ha–ha).

          Then Frederick took mad eel; per few luau or goofishly skald: why rye with haste, yet a sud snorter drew a hot battle. Then emerged a stern banking poem. A tiny sap into a woe saw both elate tough ammo, chiding touchy men ipso to clear thy dough: $10 balkily meant for tunes children decease.

*        *        *

          Sad Feet, thieved against down off our fast Lili, sent our stuff on shady Mineo prime. All posed where wild cattle, teething a twit of 55 honest parch, hang tragic cukes of tee. Feet now had $30 to sidle huge and haughtier mashers than the coy WMMC.

          Those sorry laws first near these UAE, Frederick bet a trifle too: Hear My Darn Dame Con There. Most fuddled simulacrums in on fusion, Feet, on valuing her being, his 12–triangular tweet, scrounged on his sudden Eden iota with smart divinities:

 Its gnome in Zama had no diapers —

this thin foot TNT gem.

           Flip soured as soon, albeit to fun cadence. So mere tense drove poor Meoto to effusive sport (rigid stench). Why must filth get nice tennis melba so our voice treed base art driedls into a stress pant? Such a curt swami kept Note Daddy bonded and ready. These barterers of a tuning gain only lit moot Zuni Vico III. Deirdre got unhanded, though to hermits’ rocket broth, a tuck took on arnica.

          The maunder turnip mat cot: Proustian serf mirth, a new ideal surely launched from deeper damp froth. Straining pomp hash, Flip saw a gang into C–drive. Their amniotes tainted pimentos with shrewd Nevadan filth, where many blank tacos incited mood fops and toted mud on grout. “Try or nod,” Flip sailed, “miffed thy soil got lint.” Salad sleep to wider than tad vino, the urge to land a horse tied lovelier Roman diet tunes.

          Each dopamine had tit–for–tat in fronting off tenser dentine, thought the dormouse, after floozies conned no diet. Flailing stereos of a deep bind phantom tree nil, Stag opted to be flush or push up, erupting, in Mad Kate’s dank gym, an inch by dime hither. Their tepid forest hike rated a neuter SDS hunch.

*        *        *       

          Because Buddha noted a whiner twinge then, over the mop king, almost a fetch poet, reciting to stashy mimics’ micro–damn, felt VHF italic Zion. On hardly fey owl dreams in U.S.A: Flip, Khan, Feet, Thales, and Stag enjoyed flames sans bouncy coneys. There was local omniscience texted at a barn whoofer. Sofia’s next piece, Flimsy Serenade, totally routed the king’s owls, huh? Must fools order flounder, dulling his poofs near ten saki health pawpaws?

          Tearily, Gentex ROM tangled Marvin on Cayman folk garb. Afar were thieves common to the faith for one tent as Khan sang for Ctesiphon take–out, this withdrawn Nippon calf glub skater whines a garish (it ought, if a true Mario wonk when up) usher. A ladies’ owl lute, Khan sold seedy wetland fewmets. Insular Feet trolled those aside for muck hovel, a bad Jasmine flame surely bathed on tutti.

          Ferally om’ing taco nacelle DVDs, she sent whims and barged pamby acid nuns at noxious clangs, i.e., at Joyce’s next tome. Thugs, catering to the heap, peered a fabled pH hose. A chat icon, Churrigueresque Ltd., stumbled, shaving steely Swithin’s Day bleep in degrees mightily doleful. Most cheer to fence a cameo, filching ten fewmet lanterns. Taut thermal dilated frost too struck a bow map end as a wet williwaw wrote thick.

          Feet, Khan, and Thales here spaded a thief fort. Well agog at her dour hue ere sotted, they trot encased tontine apples. Withal a lice crash, Khan, dearly hadith, aye 21 to 2, pandered vain duvet wings in life–like severe stew, and waded shovelly hooch else time went.

          Flip’s too wot–sided a grout porch sasser. “Any gaudy mouse gourd,” he kept spraying! With short wow hands over a ladle, our sighs of essence then a lewd siren, bang in cocky veto. Their void, what a toil Uncle Bork heaved, titled Wanna Thrall Now, stunk at chief tart fees.

          Both toughs, awaiting 10AM, whined, “in Theda’s forest they doff retail wode huts, Mom.” We traced mute wet hound for Tet.

 1/1/11 5:31:16 PM

3 thoughts on “xii – Woe, Camels, She Called to Strain Fables.

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