Those who tell us that light is a great number of little globules, striking briskly on the bottom of the eye, speak more intelligibly than the Schools; but yet these words never so well understood would make the idea the word light stands for no more known to a man that understands it not before, than if one should tell him that light was nothing but a company of little tennis-balls which fairies all day long struck with rackets against some men’s foreheads, whilst they passed by others [J. Locke, “Of the Names of Simple Ideas,” in An Essay Concerning Human Understanding III. v. 10 (J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd., 1961 ), p. 222].
i — A Dire Poet, I Saw Chewy Gelato Trample Dry Flan.
A mad new year swam at dormant tubas: to get blond wit, owning a guide to moth birthing, Gigi met futons out in wet starch, left Faust near pews, and let nice daily noise out again. Goth foot fruit, John’s booty cam, went gnarly inside fleet studies, soon flopping on the slosh rococo myth.
Their French wig mistier, the mad Celt scrivener meant, “ye chime so bulky scale fees can dial kelp bud.” This puddle was apt pale when drab ease stood a far fen by cashing Zeppi’s homily. In trust, can a farce fume strongly grind life, if Slum Doom La–La Lion hooked Pam’s small mugs?
“‘tis elf barge bait,” Hesiod thought in twain, a lit buddy to small paved elf tarots, from emptied foment into crude chute hair: if under usual pet stay then, a he–ghost hierarch, a divine Lima far off in great inch.
Again tight acre gone on, ignored in wand waifs’ entire plight, a lawn pooch, sped at tepid pennies, kept many Swiss bottle druids hollow. Both a diverse bother then, psionic dither over bath art ukulele hid on milady.
“Y’all fit in true TV grind,” said those tots to the fiery fond grommet holder, born priest cheerer, and doggie monster, lest giant serfs clearly brew blithe shampoo knells. Nearer a swamp than chalk gravies, the nard choir broke off wispier fancies, too high on a hunched view reprised along Juan’s attorney.
My happy editor oozed, a–quiver that a cool title flushed buff stints to mute both craft lots, i.e., blunt pot oiled Fortescue’s I–beam in fine gag crux teeth. Flimsily their gown meet, ere beer miming, meekly warned a mooshy ham (a knotty diaper seemed bent on bluish Hawaiian, when he eked other vistas to use their old shears for a needy Hyde pueblo home).
Here, these grim whooshes kept dated condo odor in tights, greeting heeded IOU chrome. Pending theory, bio–courts found talent in moieties from a neat thing, i.e., Fortescue and iron home gyms. Lemon, Tybalt, and Dare, if halted in pure traits, created infinite torsion, lodged heap hookah busts, and flushed the swim option.
“Thy regret eyed a medical queue, built to wildly sliding Welsh mamba.” “I’d ticket our heroine who, feasting on a large fey hippy, had really bored the noted hedge.”
. . .
Changing wiry steam, I cooked near the annex. Under no gaunt chord notched the novena, startling one of the pianos bought to hush crows. While the red beast was sthenic on a witty moog trap, her distant spleen humoring treed poofs, tiny pests elated noisier howls.
Spotted in forced cheer, our BLT groceries laud Hiawatha’s tart zine, five loud codicils mailed into leggy flinch, a bowl too even after human blame, and three willing Hite barmaids’ nachos later, frescoed in bluish hush baud tiger hog Bitsy.
Ill–owed, my seam omen too fiery, cleanly thrusting costly mileage, dream dangles melded with her moodiest retch in Dad’s license, while talented leg whirlers, believing in clackety Upsala cats, gathered voire beans gone high. Then no faienant, daring these green lotion knobs, roofed Nintendo as Bio–girls in Color was luridly uncorked.
To kewpies on agape booth decks, fewer beefs hurt rival taffee puns than a mulched, ingrown, chattel shout heaven, but then, finding soft rainware moved these in anger, old melds cheered an axe indwelt. “Ugh, mini–hoyden, striven so soon each digit,” blared mine whistler, “enjoy soft shades half–lit at my pad.”
Dim new dread did, given his monster hotel croupier’s slyly peeved tontine, break around dances. “That, sir,” whined a sauna rat, “affronts their green sex change rescuer, who lifted live kites and debits ditsy sheds in fine thaw.”
I saw lottos form every premise to fret elf dogmatics or row mome shows, if on faulty feed. Their moronic tithe felt venereal in derby gifts of unhinged, moot coincidence, ran off by that one fan’s tighter teak Houdini shame.
“I blew smiley hook–hands, eager thaw,” Fortescue’s faith and huge fir motto gush cheered: a pact ceded on slum cat gyrations. “Ye ate either coupon.” These skies did Bitsy a quirk: so close, unbleeped, their fez musical ensuing here zigzaggedly expletive of hiatus.
Ajar, a swift squint chimed when other tepid espions did a hurricane wad.
. . .
There, lent less surf, we will shore free dead ash on a mound. If fey slush pouted, for they do feed on wept sand, those monthly dusts tread bent woe. I had hopped forth at Goya’s blue ratio to post cradles, being quiet to fair whim. A churl faced a chichi form of dull wit being posh with gum, but segments seethed to forge some sunny Vail crown toad sap.
Led past time, ceded to studio force ether, Io petted non–foot icons until the bar fetched a ton of lit streams. Often homey beans whom, per your wet bed contraction, are under fan veto, roughed their fort of a neat hero and re–run infamy.
As marzipan hilarity riddle (Rizzo’s true wife stationing ill–lit church fits) made type, so moving, blurrier scuds reached caustic cities to fist up more holistic stumps. “Yes,” sulked the camel dubbed Thor of Cad Bank, “but could I feather truant tangent sides for their noted pence?”
Cat Mon sat, through DDT broth, “of Fortescue and Bitsy, my Louvre dream swims. Howdy, ye limp sea, if deltas urge off brittle pie.” “In age, I reverse tame wound,” ELIZA’s tired hot fatwah mouthed, moving truth under woolen tangent milieu.
Met in the dirigible tern, though forgotten, wading my boys’ elf for fur, she urbanized viral Tony scams and gamed into fond Mack. “By the way, that crutch wired sad Bute,” he snored. “We’d Oreo luck, eh, thou tired cello hippie?”
Other egrets roamed, hugging gargles. “I can rage to tide other piece nodes, hen.” “Dot’s tract did bode hissy fops, not to the tatter.” “Liefer, we trek in a great chrome day.”
. . .
The apiary was off null wings when viewed, as wafers lewdly crouped Leary retro. That gospel food sky, amid dangled and bad cheese, went lewd where gone, batty army cows fasted. Lent a final tent, men drew bulky Yale snacks to mustily sway as fun scamps crooned that we noted artsy piles of mellow tubes.
FYI, Io was passing a cool if Arian Honda pin, and Lochinvar, baited, might gestalt odd engines. So giant runes may get what color within permy scene right, Punic lane elephant fugue Gigi repatriated to the pinchbeck owl and yawned for Mitt to free Newt’s mule.
1/10/2013 10:13:20 AM.