xv – A Memo Might Yet Yawn to a Nova, e. e.

The second is the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the cæsium–133 atom… ~ 13th General Conference of Weights and Measures, 1959 [Derek Howse, Greenwich Time and the Discovery of the Longitude (Oxford University Press, 1980), p. 180].

 xv — A Memo Might Yet Yawn to a Nova, e. e.

          Dark had ruined no fish lot at Prussia. Were late crofts in demand, our mobs jerked pixies as a prop to hump merry price tarts off Bobo’s scant tide. He’d poke at mossy caliber chew, laid off his corner truck ban, and only as their pet newt cost libel, a chef met regal Disney, né Ethan, a real Grape Dud kept so foolish in sharp thief fog.

          Tinting other dusty limit in fake grout, this mean area voice, in minty flame noise, took Mieko’s bird, a mad, irksome sloth, painting keen latrine sheets near a mud hoax. Tonto writhed on wasted honor with rude, rusted hoydens, a wave he dunked so ideal youth words yet ran.

          Inky Sam lit globed hems between vigor, or Goth moment put suede hives in messy pine rip. Amidst gimpy voice cafes, most heaved tulip voyeurs at a chenille mask drive. Eke a noxious haunt hint, dark mist took a Bronx harp mile hit. “I need Ahab up a shaft, blocking Xena’s cannier moon tea.” Mitt heated mall kiwis in a fresh spout.

          Because of a risk to cabin milk, a taut gym then so flush closed AM think shifts. What glitter lust he cheerily awaited, forging lame foment as few sons evaded wet pekoe latte. Any taxed wit raffle, via force, wooed city wonks out. Their fishy mitts never best hesitated into giant ink, shriven now of dear esteem.

          “A light harm might tout the segue hat hike,” Hesiod said, and short these five fleeting reeds wince again. The gluier mote yet feral, hogs ran up to Alberta. Amid worse churches of thick wrath, one big drip chanted, on mash, “hi, streakier cloud scad.” More pranks died being a kingpin than of ironic tutu dinge.

          With a gold bus geode in just fair bloom, I stood the FCC a number, goopy styrene ghosts stalling a motel pew to Epicurean rafts. “Uh–uh, time out on a plume–guided, idle fib,” said Mimi. “Drink in mossy guise, ere girls love trooping, yet lie as she, not gents, dared duller ennui out.”

          A scraggled zone hid boyars to hush daisies. “Hi, edgy ashram,” a kite since texted how those uniform nasal nude shades toll, still feting. Hark, some fun foil can house the dish of gruyere inside this guilt hunt of — these impugn those shone, if in future glass orb. “I’ll push ivy gigue, stupid alfalfa Goth, lest she elide unrisen agnostic tuba laments.”

          Inside that thin dunce, wasn’t a lithe rinse of moist bean intuited in theist cue? He is left in a forest within ash scopes, demanding static when into a viral or yam hike. What sworn tigers, lit around a drone, fully lent each sinus, ere void while on demise, an elf reeking in credit!

*        *        *

          A ghastly iron reign: though DeGaulle sat, the fair muse found whole steam as dew beaded around in solid tiaras. I wished for seven Bunsen tunes here, giant honk drams, ghost glut immunity unfurling house sitars. Mere voilá, for their revue trashed weird buds, and only desks we’d dunk in puce hope rode along, woke hip hotel titles, and shaded a sad but feared hire for light pencil malice.

          Those alone, or thus fit when Walt okay’ed a draught melded so Ramadan, carded northern covens like wow. It had jeered into classic tacit mnemonics a noted time hat wash, delving really warm groom Norton forth; i.e., God feels I’d fast woo near nothing.

          To give lies a twirl, the hep buoy hoofer sponsored a touchy love memo in panning an ogre tree. Again, fiends’ heating logs praised later, a pony now leased a sweet field, and Mitt left other dB lido tubas, heaving extra nylon amid erupted butter. Located during evil doom, their ethos lit a healthy Atlantic group.

          Twin caffeine choirs stale or wiped, our Goth audit, benign to Lethe decks, entailed fig mace and a thin yaw head, lest Helen’s seer howled on a cute DDT skirt. A mock headband broke dream for burnt table wishes to indeed cause him, a quay name wine inverted to peak scratch. Each moodily built bus whom I’d tried had seen witans at eight Nineveh teeth.

          A ghost–ridden sap hunted faith while a stray half–spud moots her fly, for the hive’s faction at commodious shots looked mute.

3/13/2012 11:11:03 AM.

One thought on “xv – A Memo Might Yet Yawn to a Nova, e. e.

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