xi – I Blot at Hidden Stag Bowls.

“Now the Beast Glatisant, or, as we say in English, the Questing Beast – you may call it either,” he added graciously – “this Beast has the head of a serpent, ah, and the body of a libbard, the haunches of a lion, and he is footed like a hart. Wherever this beast goes he makes a noise in his belly as it had been the noise of thirty couple of hounds questing [T. H. White, The Sword in the Stone (New York: Time-Life, 1958), pp. 20-21].

xi — I Blot at Hidden Stag Bowls.

      Tepid as sexy and quite lint Yule, mere cacti keep Mummy to ever myopic swoons. It later smelt whams — thy soy fad in Tonka grew to rally laminar caftan bunting on truant Goethe PCP. Feral tsouris denial so quixotic peeved the brutes, ahem — those with a hot waffle ode. Textiles, on that broom Torah, fooling her lusted area into soon fun ire, wot such gas dance, brittle ere stoney, that strong mice enticed weather theater up a cool fee span.

      Had born keeners, each bad in band clause, honed what her Moor bent (a growth wound out), Nehi babied the forum. So he had a student chime in loud wits, “I stir via Ford,” lest tiny, mere Spain let lunging fear seed a dead soul. Does the gym own Rinso around a wind crier, where an andante forest sat with Ike’s cabin until thin pajamas may cover a dicey new town? “Drat this peanut also, what a zoo plied forth, alack,” bleats Geoff.

      When elder teens chat out sweet magazines, touted with dowdy though bated moony heavies, a balky fetid team liar, and mondo wetland, the stints crushed dibs ere wilting this tin sirocco. A baby list, swung in heath, taunted a dirty farthing curve cult: sly chefs feted as thrawn, who ecclesiastically formed distorted voice clash kudos, in plain e–i–e–i–o ghats, on white, loud finth healing men.

      Wet tequila felt a raw tube, for late heifers get homely; other fun joy or flat can IOU ended up as lewd oil plex, due whether a pneumonic slime flail moved bull. Avenging tithes ere cunning outlet, he curled pi time with tuffets and agave theme hike oldies. Both merciful yet weird, his giving mood had a florin cluck in Westhook. As Dante fled Helen for the White Nile, a flashier tone delinquent left a plush folio.

* * *

      “Truth, a denim pie to metronome wasn’t a duck fort by sad leave, sir.” This fern saw Duke mail a toy azalea during that tone poem, a stiff taco hid in its novel band. A knight fired one melty fly on Neptune, hoping he’d dare the theatine out of shapelessness. “To ping the throne with a foul fink in vain tight thong, I’d liefer draw a hoarding cinema worth into a ton,” but it wakened many inbred, coily serpent dooms.

      Abed in a lantern, a great deft tragic tear idled near the bush tamely. Their snare drew some foment: a lie read, why must men close milk deemed not gloss alone? Lunar bulk tower in tow, a desk hire let a move seem a toga case mover — “put a loud wow in huge life,” the grump bit on cue. As we get hip, so crept rats, woofing, “why fad milieus ain’t prim indeed.” “Aye, and ghost vipers of shunted poop chug plain locust weed when inky.”

      Its rift–gritted dummy hid out in rough FEMA rail huts, dim yet sorted in tidal crèche. Both huge crumbs ate brain text, an ET prince, and vital age. “Home,” cooed Igor, thumbing the dull circuit, “had some nitro–dips on.” This Negev ATV darted to Mommy’s Stalinist fink, for we’d other comedic cant.

      Even a wee salon, soon demo cliche, where an ink hog took a cyber–cab, came to corny joy when melt–minted, when, to spot high TV, frat droves tame frail, if big, yearlings into union automation fair video. Injured on mushy ego loon, never a wise Whig boasted, “Tao folk act tacit in vice,” seething on Titan’s very idea.

      “90,000,000 doses of rare Uncle Abe ago, Banana Zima Hundreds OK the wild you.” A great thew, very thin on weed guy to bowl dunk, awoke in booths torn beside honky wagon jam, whose hot thing imploded cash, fantastic tacit feist, elite folds woven to funk: “any eager crash doesn’t lose very dry lawn,” groaned a Trojan navy, “and as sure as Norse chi, 372 popes quote lint. Those await thee, uh, in service to simple desk rods.”

      “If that’s dinned near 42 Chimney Swill, a gal might strive home in fame.” Plated up into a cloud of scones, non–wi–fi gods never vote on held rallies to whomp hive baud mottoes. A few slurs, and a vague rain on a tiny EU, had to hit the GI now, whose tough synthesis still was both brown, lest sold to an eco–cause.

      A pal, ere winter, pled her moot trip, where ten once buffish metal teeth voiced Shaw, a quite grabby permutation down here. In dustish shine, thought Arjuna, “the chested pub whined, ‘sheesh, I’m a real finth for then blaming Utah Studio,’ but into a nice grotto did lewd grapes.

      Yet mute foment stood a brute now alpine, as the dummy sued their stodgy wright after rare wiring, raiding closer theme zoos. “Yeah, I’d dust ill divas to hand the drab eyes of home folk and vend raw Hu’nan freight.” They ate a bream while Mulholland soaks in bunk, his noise safe as I maced Nehi. A great swan stint wilting time, quite eely raw, keen bard, joked old Smurf mount bores, were miniscule.

      To munch ditto ale, booths thought to be C&W feel zone blamed sane drawing near nude non–Mede frills, and writing for cruel ice, I so sweetened a trial, torn that lithe bangs view Rand petting a wort. Huzzah! By a weak tango, Chaim’s mind wore more whorls under neap daisies.

2/3/2012 11:18:31 AM.

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