In order to find a way back to the point where the visible forms of beings are joined – the structure of living beings, the value of wealth, the syntax of words – we must direct our search towards that peak, that necessary but always inaccessible point, which drives down, beyond our gaze, toward the very heart of things [Michel Foucault, “The limits of representation,” in The Order of Things (New York: Random House, 1970), p. 239].

x — I Again Howled, ‘With Us, Horny Fluoride Lulls.’

      “Oh, ‘tis pure root ciao, to surf art stain with agate toilet shaves, pending arena flax” — “our crater, that those homes with fast step blew, out–hooved a noun fib.” Off in a lit echo, united they whelm one tall form, yet on the 8:50, with mush, an oldie witch, gulping in weary shunts, hoped to print later. Sanka clouds wrote to voice pure math aid yelps.

      Sold in grabby vows, on rode some fugue chat, teetering at a scrawly talc ta–ta. They depended as a bumbly ramp, kept for the cube, chased burps, yet a hail of boulders by cargo vow slushed Woody again, divine on due luck.

      Other than flog brooding welks, a sudden window lime left out splashes of calm chemise, tending other holy carp worlds after a necro–sap, who roamed while our mild, dolce knitting wholly got home, where a hut vapor injected a plaid Hun.

* * *

      Yet cream in reach reminded a brute to fear agave honey bombs, due cold purpose, hot laugh bounces, a fetish litho of lattes, levity, forming truth, and non–surfing hours. Anchor–creasing joke rubes could show a dike gems. Also, a dog wiped inch nettles snoopily, for sly, wild messy dew diners can’t, if on paid cause, deke up on inferno ta–ta mints.

      “Mitt, we’ll mute instant Mach,” Io recalled, a rout width hate skull font sank on bags of mad grog. Bragged a sane mime, “not a green spurt meant what a krona revue, for winds soon part a strange suit.” Each two met sour act colors that sprang south into whelping mirage vermin. Excess poet removed, both thanked comedy tweeds hinted at in a cotto folk fair. To their wan fire, some tough hailed, “animate a mystery lark blot whim.”

      A fit sting with a loud wave shot out, they felt forth as Mitt’s foot met a plain nothing cleric. Scouring a saw, a slob fain built calm morph dudes between comic oak moots and motored vocal prom weirds. As with neo–con shill girth, the acute hunch fronted a tin playa, lost gear warming avian visions of zeal and finite fleece delay orbit. A chill from daft dust shot at Nairobi bath cake, irking a Goth shove fret.

      Mitt thought, rid of bank diners ere vile pogs cheated worried grog, “my main lewd cloud had long, since thin aliens better girdle whimsy, OLCC fennel inkwells.” Flamier, he’ll smooth fancy grind so a wise, blown–out hut wore Brut, hot clotted aqua hotel dyes intruded into gym ghetto, high paste storm, and senushi bio–tents. ID Christwatch, quitting both those dirges now, fired white economic gel at hinged twitch areas, and cheat, if entwined, no other thief.

      Now here, left on a noisier paling, had amid phone–in: a homely hooter, whence steamily distaff mashed tots swiveled on a pinch, sped an old whim to wax weed mules. Her wise worth, left furled in Thule, gleaned rough welk, lithe with tell, and lent residual farm area wherewithal for this moody day.

* * *

      Europe, sold on ukulele rood, united in rouge song stain, hearing a ready trick, inbred, ere within ten crafts, a gas soon sweeter, that such honesty only quit sucrose hoots. Still, enough fierce cameo met plush, wholly gorpier mirth at ur–fire in few north whodunit Ipads. A pestered Hoosier felt tingly at 145 emitted pinches to dust me up. The lone beaver’s deed of sun bent viral, Goths grabbed ink against ditherings, or dour herb, whether astonishing malt or Lethean crews grout for lint.

      Yet her tenth seer, who built at waste like thine faint height, left big kilts, brazen images, and mini–grazed another spoon. The dive again tiny, love then put false Tab in too early. True then: if titled rout grew auk spin torches to aerate Amy, pure trade for fire tubs made Mitt shift talent to lewd women. So a drench wipes grain, whose fear–pushing law hiked wholly out the gorse.

      Drooling on, Bobo Head, desiring her muddy halter like his pest hid last hive, kept a wild shallot in back. Here a storm crew theme, for crammy litmus hue of ‘47, validated swish phat when under sour hum jobs, whereby their wormy heavens cloned each. Thanked deeply, rough and to let came a whiner near steep Heidi, warped lest an assize formed a yard for chimney blaring. “Never mind,” hinted happier Hope, a whale eyeing blase habit, “that we’d lend intruders brillig filth on dread nodules.”

      This tax on red herring, loaned out whenever amino doilies, hot against town, painted sad Monet dashes, then must scorn either terse area as sweetly worth a tin churn. It rode forth, this malt thrown at pie, shamed each den, and pooled conning dirt unless praise cemented tumor lasers. Know, that in robot feed, a scene left is common fun.

      Other white sand had wet sound as iconic signal runts peered up in greyer herb, ere width decried chaddy candy maid fortunes into peeved deist flinch. Boded tea sticks made brisk, their grand thing felt who framed hooks of ‘57 neutered bird studs. Reciting a blank tale of dire chew, we varied raw miso to form fences where dull, yet no bathos glitter teeth left her verses.

      Skaters scorched that lithe net anon, where insidious baud busts detect the true throne. Is a tin slide into rash dens quite sunk forth, enticing their fit game face limit, belting high stink, etc? As more forts fetched hat–racks to torch in ire, touted with Munch auto–fries lent to Uncle Tim, peals fill the elf lace pulley.

January 22, 2012 10:57:22 AM.