i – Re: His Chary Owl, Sam.

… if this is all we are going to find on other planets, I, for one, am going to be content to stay at home. There is quite enough of that sort of thing down here, without encouraging it throughout the starry systems [Loren Eiseley, The Immense Journey (New York: Random House, 1957), p. 158].

i — Re: His Chary Owl, Sam.

       Since sham exits petrify worthier ether, Waldo was Mitt’s trivial lawn dud team, i.e., seamy ere tidal, if prattled. Then a plot, lain for Wyoming, faces coin where, dealt a giant crew vending out goober shad, lignite puffs hog nice wet bond. Of burst ivy, most fine, hole–fearing ewers now rode to vote on hosed uranium hockey, nay, if cited in warble dust plans.

      Poring on deeper orient, a held crowd, urgent in few icy warranted boat ego, juked to wow tuba, filing now weedier ties with molasses co–ax on a poof. Perchance a time theme, wed wool under utter prune, bio–active cites loom, of web muons about integer jail owed gremlins. Freed, huh, Virginia danced a vain fret ere Mitt minted nine new forks at his home.

      Sam drew, ta–ta, a creepy, text–laden IT with dull pose to Togo. Her ghost loci shined alter ‘fro mire in brittle tort. Rockier lake pulls yip in a wide two–step. On foremost fuss, both snorts wowed headier stigmas, “out when I met Decaf Dan, wan in every finch decon, ’twas cotto as elfboat slime worth decreed footing.”

       In rolf crams a spiel away, that wife thought a lame till, hinting on spoons, cracked at norms treasured within rude fogs. Cowing a tough stomach for stompy petite worm, eke monads, tried forth in yet solid true way, voiced Earth noses, those frills amerced a teen form crush from teeny tofu.

      Thus, owl rent due, Monty, a cure, lit where tilted fits argue, or tithed, of moiré crooks, a real way, yclept Mud, flowed blue as apple mace. They shot fire miso rally to Delhi, ruining these aqua theme rummy closets. Firm sneer duds, touted to be viral hotties, whined, “how we threw Mike off 891–foot fit tan sheets, ciao.”

      Aged, I’d tried a far cafe, but thin are cap & gown mottoes; each wi–fi here graded within 15 dim elf hexes ago. In gusts, proto–water blasted out filth carefully. Again, fed lobotomy nepenthe in a timid strange mirror meant to awaken his rat, the stew, glummer in elite creme Macao, thrust Pooh near septic gum, a feyer pontoon thusly ethereal.

      Duly, a pica topsy elf, paints as margin mats (so a dirty Ruth left mash stammers while inert) derided a short hover gun. Her wookies, a Prussian hymn throng, steam Megan, kill cries, or brought mere Duly (I took the El, gaunt hoorah) in the goober winky. OK, a limo dew draws off a low thing.

      “Mitt, he lit his vittles in very uh–oh seaside byres, or eyed over Piglet, limp to heed a Heine omen rant. Hi, we’d like at least furry shoes there.” Vivaciously lent a pawn into more cram footage, Beyonce, this astral oak model, bleeped a bunching ABM tact, if wired gold put a guide hatch on tea. Its ill dharma of turf wore fine ion.

* * *

      A bail of love undies, daft rag law, frothed in elastic axles daily — at least on eight wavy mm. Momus proved for me that yells save our litho to ditch lovely epicenters if steep crag stoolies, baited on inherent showery fear, gnawed icier, viz., tap a teal pad, snowy epithet: broth fights in shrewd Taurus, that hope against neat shot, ignore Thebes’ twin chiding in bad hive.

       Three dented teens shared a thorn–lit, hefty hawg, if hoping wood thread saw Lima. Either bird lives to beg fever at a drive–by on Older Nehi, where soft warps blended that cheer. Ah, ’twas there, hark, a pale stew, stout chili zemstvo fiat photon, where, under flighty Handel, laid botulism today. I’m all ripe desire along the dream fossils: a sour troll phase.

      So an angel fib we want — Ravel dolls later gaped — in dinky, hot twitch need, a vapid shine ice blast thaws. The sewer team leered to Tsar Nick, “erotic fool, winch the lax jetty nub as pieced.” He lumped a lump to an elite metric thug crew sale, sent hexes that circle gutsy vita, and, if shy geodes snore in deep wine lain on, grew tight with bacon peat.

      Then to sour feed threw oboe elves, toting fine to a tourist. The sun weebles evaded sewn music near forthright dune slander. A new man pined over a limit on dirt in Utah: “egad, stote, my grime rates took a war or rash veto within rehab action. We belted mud out, Mitt, a hard eagle.”

      A pert wisp barred, again a love clench greeted these nubbins. To ere, in period tome, what dire mutts emptied the animated northern grit! Silly whims and tin gate cats her gist, ere rash shad sin, Cephalopod Teutonicus anew grouted these thin mass wines. May gefilte have lit warp, ere a web fuss grew the brewery, save for beauty simile, whom, copied through encrusted Mephisto’s skittle, founded a can–can Scot.

* * *

      Pure nausea writs set to, a foment faces tequila–tied, dour arriba faith tots to weave Terran retinue. A roar, worn top creme, led either revolt to shrewd dross, boor band voire, or thinner bottle newts than other hotsies’ diet, where mini–Ben came to church in hunger.

      Then its plucky pride sure waned over one poem slush as sung to ye, i.e., “whew, spiraller, we’ll bobsled, awaking overt, waxen claims to Bakelite or damn glad hugs.” A purser said to his cicada, “Steve, I can mute green grandstands, huh?” Her pile driver mime grew, e. e. Others, fit thin today, goosed putty, suggesting drool by the auto–mat. Her baby crew visibly adrift, this dork featured behavioral tremens of brew, i.e., fonder blends in a cane tedium.

      “Be our guest,” nods a meek kelp catcher, Hesiod, a wily but booty–seeking hippy, whose flashed fan, Sanka, acutely grunted, “fa–la–la, hello, swear on less, ere tubs kill what label is green gravy.” Adobe bongs they’d led eke mere. Aloofly boring, moist chants dominated a fresh dole.

      Why, tug glue or shy mush there, ditto, else a canny lug will play sod to wed neon hen putty, or owe Kuku, a dyke, who? “I skate in a lot,” Hesiod said, then paled. Drats, an owl, having tsouris with her cute wi–fi, bleats dense font, or enabled a Mormon ID firm to devour our new squatters.

6/29/2011 6:01:15 AM.


3 thoughts on “i – Re: His Chary Owl, Sam.

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    • PAti says:

      And Van Persie should cotinune to put up these numbers for the foreseeable future because his game doesn’t rely on speed, similar to ohhh Dennis Bergkamp. Look at the difference between Torres and RvP for example. Torres might be indulging in too many London dining establishments that’s he’s lost a step (and quite frankly I don’t see him ever getting it back). RvP on the other hand, knows how to find space and his movement is extraordinary, knows precisely when to pull off defenders and so on. Torres is just a mess to watch these days, but I’m glad that’s Chelsea’s $50million mistake!Now if Walcott could learn from RvP hmmmmmmmmm 2 0 0 0

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