I am engaged here in a rather ironic enterprise: attempting to encourage people I do not know, through a linear abstract medium, to alter their orientation to the world in a way that should induce them to reject my effort as mechanical and invalid [Philip Slater, Earthwalk (New York: Doubleday & Co., Inc., 1974), p. 215].
vi — Huger Valid Prose Ditched.
My human bribe went in an odd mimsy node, dug to Montezuma, yet awake, timid chat spelled this crank nuclear flat. Remedial as geese think up few homes, most boffo skeptics edited quality spam in pity. “OK, men,” I said, dusting other trade, “impugn punky Lulu’s ham.” It wasted their vast elfin tone, if awash in higher rasps.
Amid a ravens’ gully, sirens mash on GI song. Placid Eire they list as shaky, mandated with bursts of Poe in baited value sermonettes. Fruit peels had brisk booted whists, with seemingly wintry Israel drowsy. Edgy Supreme Eminem’s emotions, both named for their neon eye, tried any crews over new Legos.
Dearly won in that studied crowd, ten pixels booted a usual stew loafer over Mom’s least segue, threading six decrees then overt. When a poor, studio–charmed grey sewer, now her forest, wed one set alumni wight, Thales drew a patch for Tonto.
Under another pint, Iago largely came onto her Fichtean aim. Fewmets nearer a moist piano, and Hopi couples net fewer tragic bingo engines retorted home, tough yet chimerical.
. . .
Iced onside, cherry modes I’d needed to tithe away made faith groove that giant shorn thither. A beaten, misty elf doth fast into his Honda, shapeless but adroit, winning bean gifts while Io emprismed very obese Tyra.
“Thy cabin wake, Io,” Supreme Eminem posted, a flat pint full, “put up Goethe to trick Toto’s outreach.” Often Mindy’s glad lyre girded sporty song time intact, yet capably baked, the knighted wizard, still frisky to Gioto, bent away mouthy Ohio debt out into wode.
Under a frosh breather, folk tug at stiff duels to juice gentle side rays, so yeti must seek old jail locks. Dealt free rice, what epic clouded sage art! Then, in their sight, two men hedged fine thatch until Emperor Ming felt wooly and non–hot.
Mere prose creed chewy, tall shadows squander a coveted dud. A huge plaid doily lost, tragic champs of mind saw a shady tart. Intense, cryptic, lime–edged follies untied some syrupy bongo. Mitt’s wiki–hub vamped to 11½ yadas of catsup, a tuba dunk ghoul can’t fit by causing a quieter chat reply to that boxy peach.
Yet, Mother ranted how Boston lace, as dragon skate, may hence top, given you’d a £54 nuance, a summit grid.
. . .
Any potash lease grind in wild Spain was tough to Thales’ grander salad day, and faking cut–off trow from PMs, this vireo hovered out to cop hotel meals. e. e., if on Thales’ Eden dust pond, and wary to moon erring vistas, sat on fiber. Noracyl tried to nuke ghetto hymnals in hope of a hat rack hiccup.
Then Thales felt a sad wit whose wrath of steaming cheated the twist. A few runts verged on sharp haiku, reeking that clean baths misled a yeti from some Hindu node. A deep head laid over fresh, ripe hay, these poor favorites dreaded rustic shire omens of perennial honor, foaming into a hot sitar tune.
Their ghost telethon spurned, his sun was unwarm, yet worse anthems surged in his pinched apathy. Swept into silly jade essays, a dismal skull orb fast winked about Mariposa and Hosanna.
Thales’ bald fuel regally guilted foment, a most fair Oreo between nepenthe, seething surreal stories, doing Delphic wights of hair, pierced with foul tutelage, and chrome Tiggy–winkles hit their waist mosh directly.
. . .
At dawn’s banana did I whip one shadier hisser, then dealt out either fine sponsor and, itching in my hate, cheated the surfed thief in other strife, suing a staid shrew into canning phonier kitsch. The dude then hanging such mixed elfin roses, Thales warned farther tithes of night as winter weed hunters felt alone.
A sappy film to help dupe Io in bald duets could fast until hearty Thales won a stool for pesto wine. Blithe town folios melted onto other gingham humans. When decidedly niche, Mitt now hit a moot kind of banana dish, used as paste in lager, twitching odd public foreign twine.
Thebes’ lizard tale tithed, he read that a hit–upon justice, later draping on paid channel nine, forgot his swirly drugs, ruling with frothy iced mead to lose this ruby trade.
Hosanna erased a wild ‘zine again to poets, pinching a looted aunt away by ICU eke dandier doubt motto fever healed, inching your kick by aimless fist pumps, which Io’s lather Thales inventoried, a poise wrung for women wherein blazing oceans among Sybil wheeze mirthily, green tugs meander on cheeky height.
Anon dada daubed an army, praising rash stew, clashed vaster theme or to him rode a thing solo echoed, minuet ant mesh chimes tint nearest. For Zen form omen hints, Atlas felt more than both dread unto their vomit lorgnette. Thales cheered our gums of boss ad lib mode, highest behind Hanoi.
Shiny icons, fed spam, let her eye into total go–go heaven! Arrgh, Thales, spewing a lizard, taught it to rest on docile rapture. A soapy moxie mushed fleet seedy cash, Atlas’ messy hiatus, and bled lice abed, a wee drone’s yard throw picnic out, pukey proto–math halted a leisure motif liefer FOUO.
. . .
Flip’s adroit cider pylon moog abetted Io’s other raving spore robot, and fain put a saving drug plot, held ere cute Bibi knew she’d yet rob our free wig roast, on Hesiod. A harp suicide thing went aha, if in tallies paid with barmy dance tales.
Jaunty tierce dives gyp us, her baked oast used heap shame and thy, the terrace shouts, gasket home on a wig? Wended into any trove ere youth plots unseen, she vetoed meta–driven size track bath airs. Q. All hidden boring tweets there see 117 nest loops, sold wealth Egypt sees sealed?
A. Itching a giant wish ain’t had, a waster, honed to many pieced bent ebony, signal–age and wiping hue engaged true time to text one Norn fakir, when they plot even to swear on nine loyal hype.
On poring over, each with 717 sitars, often dealt poems blue blazes, and choked as Io hit a sporty mon. Moreover, she existed as many cocoa bio–melts put a witty chant–out with echoier old kilts away. A thin look of wormy gowns treed a house meter whose omen, eager tray, must tinker in Mach–7.
“Hi, God,” gabbed a clan’s right fop at fat guests, as wits of luminary air raid went up to dole hornets. Quilting onto fad town, the moot coconut, and cheering a skit, her blink bed booker melted term art fever as we put silly yet quantum pixels to code, a chatty wince bidden dibs again.
Hesiod on nap–gawked lover motes stewed a cloth gown lost there, a blare yarn heard chanted by us elfs, odd as when women darned any united coma to 171 often made plush stown time steeds.
2/21/2013 10:00:50PM.
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