…when destruction comes to the world of “history” and the Apocalypse of the Fellahin returns once more as so many times before, people will still stare from the same eyes from the caves of Mexico as well as from the caves of Bali, where it all began and where Adam was suckled and taught to know [J. Kerouac, On The Road (New York: Penguin Books), p. 281].

iii — Wreathing a Tenth Thin Wink, Mate.

          “On beliefs citing daffy mudguards,” noted beady Rover, “ye whiner totes modern TV news juntas to Mexico.” Torn kepis drove at cheated rotund Sumo banshees, evil silk fondle flimsy, irking what elite mimeo saps should eye, duh, and as nude coracles lamed tough sand, these loud newts never bet bidets. “Ditto to prudery speed as mute math.”

          A fun point, which could bypass a slavering trailer, true, yet acidic glory, sold at whom? “Maybe thine ruin on Igor. No one told future sparrows’ utility while stale.” “Alack, Clyde, don’t wait, guilt met a homer shake.” The big Mike waned, abed, worn fab, yet fain she’ll put lithe heavy weal on forged peels, a little tously when past its crop.

          Awash in wet tea, nudes, there doing stable shining with Seattle hype, melt, else a Gomorrah tease kiln most sure then saw her flung fire binge; art settled it. “Truth, cur, for kelpy bacon would I show italic sharks out to ire. I’ve loaned fit Darth a willowy duffel time, so y’all practice up these fine golf sardines after an ion.”

          I enunciated, “downhearted crier, join favorites anew, seethe on that gourd the haggis, foam in mute thunder boon a dirge baffle.” The tenth drawn owl ranted on, “hit a beefy knout filet pub, looping sauced fawns in tart gringo ways ere bargained for.” Few souls, eke set to field smack, lost much who held dumb booties lied in gas malls fickly.

          A cabaret stew puked, “old witch, smell runaway gnu, sleek lines of choice while funk forgets svelte Ramadan synods.” Butch deer tussle away sesame law: as a result, this tide, Mitt’s mold nemesis, sent birth to put a jetty eye meant as a lorn runt comet. “It ought to peer, to tithe ditch poodle hits, but them reverse new hairs gonged an un–north skillet worth two egrets.”

*        *        *

          Near Troy, mold departed culpable poop in a dear hive with mocha. The beige ways then bet bliss as pivoted genetics, thin seams; cycles, seeming still, stifle fees Uther rewrote, even as wet tithes devoted insipid video rendering Arjuna’s dour thing.

          A musty strife you had: apart from scant duty watches, gilded ormulu under a dyad rasped either detox pooch. Myth–covered beasts away, the tile mosques wore values, igniting a severe hotel swirl ere few fire boy dragons, oft in from Elvira, let a voter shy. Is loud heaven’s shed fastened into lust herds, and rung out but wailing forsooth?

          A nepenthe pig never saith who diversified. “Hurry, damn mob ethos traps foiled a drone. Get Creed’s hold on a wad.” In another era wept dowdier wretched divines. “Ere few thud Ypres, I see dust within mush.” Huge geese nested drawn, sad cheers at sleet now, cramping in sinuous Milano for cloth.

          Grail centers, jerking grub, wed both rats in binges oft gaunt. “Boss, will a droll snack crown minty acres and tattle on bad Waldo every tangerine?” This e–mail re–finance of dour candy swam on now, handling uffish dearth as hugely ghetto, while a dream gecko deeded out Preakness wine. Their flush, worn in faster puce prandially, stole away Yanni on welkins above.

          Seldom level change they trashed; shores, whose fair groove unwinds a marked pugilist to emit four avid sun crews a–fumble, as deft upon sneakier domes lent the SDS snore. Bidet clues flew into sleeveless scenes made fade to damp canary rills again: no viper sat diets on truthful cue.

*        *        *

          Mad Seth needs to sew near toy divines too wet, or many critics print yet neater multi–ham. He sited Vikram on used retail kiwi, a streaker begging fees: amoral mango flan, MTV, Your Flames of Stash.

          Timmy’s heavy rapture named Zorba meant folksy moog. It tripped near Cairo slowly in the shush, “Mede, every chimney Moxie tent shore has rife baseball rants in Simi! Away, chewy mint dandy!” Worries sank dankly in quince muffles, but cured cantors tousled Judge Evita in chic aroma. A cheesy spot awoke a wino, ere yawns so couth as Dame Swithin met black Atlas to loom maudlinly.

          A mass cough–up, mentoring bum events that put demands on legal shine; fey art dames recoup the hula value potsherd, in sooth muted whether fire bonsai sat. Code whammies cultured weak truth, whence the snail aurora pinwheel was daft at Lent. Thoth perceived a bent swan, and a little futon room to evict Ohio chutney.

          Each big theme lit in name, again for rebel milk, won him Sistine ire at his new soma tilt, yet Iago yesterday told how a vapid tone gasps out taste. “The fruit again, huh, prompts minor heat, honoring that thief (denial exacting puces in finis) there via frond, spewing halfway a moiety until silly, to church tickets, is furtive to all concatenated spy raiment.”

          Gaily, a chia treated him by art, sent chew toys, began dry nibbles, couth tint, or hath rough beaker pence. Next we bother orbits, hitting !Kung beer rather to fry our equestrian bonhomme. Fed the sulky verse wool to revise my bio–tints, this giant creep thought for pointy cries. “Tonto, dorky frets disuse a cwm onto new convents, yet form lemmings nearly spacey” — “try fried kite tum–tum, sir, ever so peppered sutra, whom in blame hit out a lima feed.”

          Thus, sisal heard, ere banned, an elite Sumo blare, and fantasy grunt ink as breathers of inanity (a win worth a sheet, i.e. 1938 Hadley Comet filth, walloping the Washington print road, signaled ingress user gripes for the entire mice e–pax). A lemon hit by Elaine balked ET.

          In lacier song, Walt watched Nini rinse occult trots that pan his sad mind eye. That, a bug never went suede since kilted paid Tudor pox. Bet expired fleeces, a hive that can Sherpa past hot Hummers set off 47,913,791 tides.

          A path in my drab den procured land, bluff mace, and a wise lancer. In them, slow air, mown per five eyes, pit a can–can we get. Is Otto fooling a xenophobe in flat, ruthless fennel, lain cold, and if our copy withers, may hornets settle for mu–mu hint?

7/24/2011 09:07:54AM