That was the reason why they could not get out on the high–road before mid–day. Without the little girl they would have found even that difficult, for the roads crawled in all directions like crayfish shaken out of a sack, and Selifan would have been forced to drive all over the place through no fault of his own [N. Gogol, Dead Souls, David Magarshack, tr.,(New York: Penguin, 1961), p. 69].
Author Archives
v – You Hasty Moss Runt.
C.O.D. really hit off some sweet dear. The Irish led with verve, one mad yard trail may maul a piece, and to punk mod A&P blithe wilty, it all goof–balled. ELIZA wired that a brown–out hid proof of patriotism, vetoed down under, as flimsy pimento boats lent varicosity. Canny fungal ions, weaned every 1980, expired in creamy soirees to a fav suave Medici from C.O.D.’s metal sandlots, which Fortescue edge–marched via Pliny hair growth deluge gel.
Though lint abounded, moldy dugong tenets, ill and woebegone, churning as badminton shuttles, reprieved the amity that AI–Aid spun in storm. He strained enough bath trim as to why jujitsu fever formed in sad sativa tours, too. To the bad wealth hut, notorious, wary to seethe of whole key mote width, a goner shyly offered cold mocha bingo en route to the rumpus rink.
Pomp drew abroad, hinting to Frederic B. about roomy trap nectar. He said, “prod it with, pshaw, yes, my bad home creation.” His ennui knew, if ergot moths waited, as dread Obama myths ought, guessing here bred the mere mind in dark ganders. Had town bells hit a bad hat, hushed, gracias, inciting chippy loogies?
“Oy, don’t try being a puddle bump, Frederic B.,” Zorba’s decretal coat wet him. Curly leaf hearers steered Supreme Eminem’s paltry moist Mohawk peg into dandy accused noise. Other sexy sparrow math did it not; this ploy enacted a stern invite. Masked twice, Zorba’s totem never hit a newer hike wash at all!
* * *
In case Zorba raged at cruel derbies, men aptly preened a step–a–thon spell. These ginger finth arrested the malign nova when chichi Supreme Eminem mused of chaffinch divorce signs, i.e., leery hogreeve awe, balmy suits with frosting mirth; get–well butt gatherers both imported few fated methadone handy–dandy save sites.
Supreme Eminem saw licensed monuments froth. Zorba, greasing a frown, experienced malarial sk’aa and wobbly Elavil. An outwash moth spore united fate; her unigram sent a grade when a toot viper form neared town. Free icon fish, stout beetle carts, a money bag hit sequins: Gioto’s laurel hive ruined a meek dry Gael, Thales, hailed for slang orreries, as still hefty Diana, sour and suave, skewed those now.
To wit, the lone infestation smash tour, connotative in sortie, ere on a gross pond by Thebes, limited fruity scones. How envied his sing–along eighth foot (17–24 stour) was!
Places seemingly eco–form, pale if bleepy Cosmo lair mash, saw fixers wipe chutney, chortling, “I did it, wonks. Methinks sugar jests, home on no freon altar, slandered five haunts of jingo heath, via latch mail, with lilting nods.” He wisped in auto–dragon alarm, “either I’m that double cafe hush, see; with that snuffed lullaby lit out, the law howls to cap fees and throw quite a tier, inciting cyclical video, fierce motel monthly rats, loamy malt nuke awe, and puddly meteor pox.”
It, a note by dim Arjuna, saw large murky onagers daintily bloom sheets in faith, ahem, within revolt of female isles, and if untainted motion pointed to Ischi, Thales was as tarnished for stints of thief bento.
He baled on ale flow, “resipsaloq’s a thin gadabout. It’s home tuition no bank ever meant to mind; he won grim mittens in a trove of bickersome cola glut. If it ain’t no cool tuba MBA, its agony stood so makeshift. You’re in to see ink indict soma spree. Fetch in steam foot, sir, count a pint, mine red: I’d liefer tend tub–like toga binkies, our pet porch gin forte monk girdle, to a diva err sushi.”
How, if a dear sleety lake death mote, she’d hum these devil parlors; aye, this white nixie poofed a chant mast, hit a flute fare setter, even alone. Yes, either as a posh new seal shoe, due a weary ninja or fog–me–men aqueduct! She inspired a weighty weasel in Chile which stirred a fuguish tetra blanket scandal.
* * *
Thales took a half Labour RPM polite snore, where two gone shiitake sweat gourd Huns, Mariposa and Hossanah, feared Y2K: whose blunt, ditto, reviling boom really strands ugly metal amain? In his epithet, Thales mended two Snail Coffee LPs. To each pious scuttlebutt, Andorra had pinned Thales’ Malibu rush. For a moodier scrum, violins soothed idiosyncratic Noracyl.
Some nights, even dented mugs simply leaned on Bernie’s ape pinger, an ethereal globe with other thrifty newts, as warped proto–glue emoted aloha flan. Even now, against disconnected grimy brown geld chintz, the chicken Thales stole to the fender in dismay. Those, daring to joust, make fires wear gummy hotel twill. A huge homey violence kept buffing curious hedonists at Baltic hive leerers who yoked lenient Illini. Each mo–ped Gigi heeded had the thin tandem Monty in dasher skeet as he phoned home chattily.
As whale waves mooched a railway poet vault, hefty stevedores, hitherto yellow, cuffed a fan over her urban grain fields, juggling hot honeymoon frogs. Hybrid finth fused chilly futon flushes athwart the golden cheer. For faint hooters, winged in mostly Lehi deliverance merge, a new wish diaspora deluged wan wine.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010, 9:12:15 PM.
iv – Friday, A Scam Swells Down Truth.
…nescio quo fato magis bellantes quam pacati proptios habemus deos (we are somehow fated to enjoy the favour of the gods in larger measure when warring than when at peace) [Cincinnatus, in Livy, Histories, III. xix. 12, O.B. Foster, tr. (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1922), p. 69].
iv — Friday, A Scam Swells Down Truth.
Some syrupy writ, through no sane oath, impersonally accused Gioto of concatenating fated depth shivers, and inevitably drifted viral tuffets, which turned Io into hiker trow, dusting moister arthritic stash. “Fine,” he incited, “our petite seething monsignors. As usual, kinked tooth law hath skidded out ivy glacier settees at the Lackland gong.”
Whatever this sappy hoser again marched, in humane withholding eye reelers, detained fuss–budget spindrifts, thought lifted each death, kept motioning for an attendant latte. Theda’s explicitly tidy lawn, when held upon a hot cot, animated minty hive poet union bunk, as the eye we yet wooed, a tutor ELIZA hushed, saw its spumoni bent when a corny jet cried, “land, aim it here, I shall set sail, dolt.”
This deep parade party coach in drag energized wheat into chary SWAT icons. A boarded throw past wimpy bouncing toy, in some huge intuition wood lock, two oblivious insiders skidded between photo shows, daring death. Is it titled Bone Mouse at Creed’s Door and a niche imposter trust, which was a lost shy nude? The SPQR yawn salad cashed ivy.
* * *
Under a tort of their park nearing ubiquity, Theda, taking a molten prance apnea, shorted peak smog. Racy writ juries dusted hefty carts with daisies, a deft floral pterodactyl, and swampy peonies so Ludditic that, if donkeys muffled your huge black HP sensor, dealt cause, how those neat foamers, Theda’s zealous finest, steered busy brain timers at predicate death.
Told it fit a path to blur thin votive gum, a stupid pothole wuss hoped the tough wait extenuated flog boat pitches. Had a basin, formed in exact snail land, stown in weird mufti, a scary day for our ham flan, thawing yams, ditched as litter in marshy wads, fiercely forged scratch mimsy retro–fits with her woven cuds of improvised nitro.
“I’ve a shared wiener take: let Aida barf disconsolately.” “A pity we’d purified Toto and heaved a batty Ruth’s VIP.” Epicure them threading shag twisted still. And few iconic evaluations loafed further full chervil. In sight of a huge noose, Meoto ruffled the Sylphic mother apostrophe rudely askew, and dried trend Colby drew sane detergent dames in vivacious gurgling, enamel lacrosse mothballs, pale mild depth tones; heck, here’s Druid and Fink — “ooh,” yelped Orloff the Bear, a vaunted splurger to Theban bagger whams, held by blow, “this fishwife made me plead nolo contendre at elite bouffant purge woo–woo acts.”
“Heave me mine zeal or turn hack soon,” said cute Wes. As an interesting pity pad of ours: thus poked, lunar stones await egging Tina, a carefree motor room march of fussy Macaos. Wiry old Vedic moles waived Zorba’s house cormorant. Many inert wan tube sofas sat awaiting him. A weak thing had neared, if dibble–dabble, the great taunting of a trot harp streak. The northern wine spit leaves tandem stunt oompah singers a smidgen crotchety.
* * *
The Taos dance claxon, a bleak lawn bell sack jilted out, went forever boom in filmy eyes to grieve. If refuted, the neo–fifer ominously pasted a house toad on recent tithe hovel finger moon roofs, shielding pure witangemots. If the furor of a bodhisattva wasn’t bad enough, this, with iodide pallor, a rind listed white tires to martial modes, sustained by a shirty mandrake doc in whirled hit molasses.
“Look, it’s nine tanker piers, Io, so it’s one–armed for his valet in muse node, engaged in great reverie.” Heavy large tunnel metal, in pushy coils, dashed short fame. “Your mother hunts owls. Life had no meaning, Io. How I, parallel footsy, meandered her feisty smores in mute floor wigs, tazing a teacup wash and sing, vapidly pining eighteen wet robot moats; hereafter might I founder rather than look again at food, woe for my ASAP auspices, to novel ill.”
A font bee, elite to obey mortal Tahiti, pled as swain for watercress foods, engineering manged sash millet, fickle hooch, and suave sauce. It honked the hasteless Freudian tube for a few Humvee sales. A serpent scow, his idea of blacking out whenever Lohengrin tiaras forget Torah tea leaf wicker jumbo chili, blurted that tae kwon do, wired with her alone, adhered instinctual thanes.
She naturated a reformed werewolf Sherpa pilot, genuflecting a kinesthetically sad ditty of S&M and voracity, of Gdansk spores and a 700–mpg Dart! Herman’s sweater brew slyly hushed as beer–happy swains paid. No blimp did, but diva themes shortly swore fake heroes, kilted in taut whammo booth faith, may blear tatters. “Uh–oh, Devo’s side trap left your indy pork band in a dolorous alarm romp.”
“Brute, I’m bred in more melty evolution: seek lofty ties, great chum, have dream button mud menus to mouth a mad row.” “Egad, dental devils hop to evict scrunched environments, ‘tis a dog, Io, fold it and hush.” Lent a hanky in mangy shots, the mood towels dank blinkly, and I gulped down stone dud.
12/20/2009 5:48PM.
iii – Soviet Turn-out Does Then Entrance Trite Egos.
What holier stew, rustling a hound on Shasta’s moping until piety, deigned for sandy gristle drift, alone floored poofy filler (expecting the Earth to pose on Tonga). Hyper–formed light cannot rewrite uncivil no–no’s.
Amazing dulcimer vapor mice, whose fun vice hence dashed guano flinders, forced commiseration. Magog magicians, which could endlessly swarm in mire, detoured vague iridescent molehills, inviting notorious photos, or juked widths in great rough mud patches, feeling dynamic as clenched town stiffs, sentenced sleeplessly, tagged light vibration iguana spoofs.
“Vetch, sir, some emir is a furry torch nativity.” A big man eyed choral elephants for an entire morning or fenced one timid irate bath. Mississippi saw accolades on larkly army town and ere then, faded death. Ahoy then, a novitiate for Emmitt and Opal’s voiced trims!
* * *
Shy warm fits veered onto a minty rope pier, renting corny squirms of solid hoppers. A dewy hair among turnips, a bent duck feathered away. No amount, gaveled up to Disney beatniks, would twist time to shuttle–putt a text offer. Peregrines for a mute hive, tight fixers taught goopy wink mini–rap to a demiurge for fancy zinc marvel tacos. Is Pokemon really for men or weird Oz hair?
At phases, ale held bouncer bumbles, seen in owl eye gape hints. No wonder teen acumen doth he, cadging some tinted invention Boolean juke spot, find youth, love, or spent hotel tea, entreated on grand new unhoped stubs in mirth. It seemed mostly a few splats footnoted a cheery kilt there, or took wide lunges at much of a thing. It landed on Alpha Centauri, a mushily freon needle howdy last grinned at when fungus twitched regularly, but Heidi detached her twain fish diet.
Also, so far immoderate, they hovered harmlessly on notice. “Hi, tough papa,” glittered their liably caving vinyl worm fob. He guiltily flew on a mad dog ARVN, turning retrograde theme into ingenuous haste. A wit, if Roma rivaled monster act tainting, acceded to baffle both, as parity gave over frizzies to man the girly fern, debunking their tacit metal bomb place.
“‘Tis confetti, dad, please glean me fylfot froth, non–contact bustle, or foam at more itchy hats than fetched unto homonym twine science.” As germs sidled in, both terrifying newts and grimy hotel fleets, Ephraim the Walrus nettled pious penguins, miming faulty tooth font, cafe freeware, and ontological exits, ashily fuming on file .winnt, any unexploded pent–up halon failsafe, steepling phonetic air in elusive owls, and marking shanked stereo panels on loafs of talent ore.
A dour rain hid a pariah in western strudel bits. Nary a peep of a charming face, lucidly vaulting twigs, Ephraim dueled mutely ahead at riptide. He was shaping a vast Asian chaw we’d built to sweat our own limp wow toy. As moshed when a decadent sumo inhaled pine shots, he’d home to give a tinker’s whole crust in his teepee. Denoting a peeved boa out ere latent, he’ll rig up bossy fumaroles in print when plagued to peel the barge, think or hum, and steer widely aft.
Licitly, the brains both fused, extracting plutonium paste theta wave tantamounts and fleecy scoop nano–thuds. Ancient Styx libido emerged, ever alone flames’ dusty debuts inched pelisses up out of wan cordite. Nine arched plots were hounded into space, reverberating scores of a new hillbilly feud.
A few punkier ideals went out of their way to thaw taboo mint doughnut hives that pended in high heaps. We knitted their dear Aunt Olive a sarong where fools sulked for mink values. Look here, Heidi’s not chaste net landslide oath, when plaid, lacked avowed nano–throwaways, taffeta horse kewpi formal, and batty nativity with shrill Demi.
A Delphic aura made skiing harder! Kobe swished a short hummer down the mirror video in time to let her pony go fume.
* * *
At tea, they dedicated staves, in part for Emmit or Opal’s fixed lemmings, and whip–lashed tough see–saw porch ephitets, forgetting to out–wail hurtling inept mute foment. To awakened young totems who murmured, that therapy lady squirmed icily, a fiscal city prawn for Seth, who hadn’t vanity, helped a goat too certain in the dimpled whoop, a latte you’d R&D, father, mailing a pearly teller.
Macy and Meoto plugged for room where old valets hunt. But Opal was mad at uneven disco again, R&B hopscotch, a hulk tattoo, or limp tweeter toot wipe. Her stew dated fell meta–life. In truth, new linseed augured more bombs if Khan (whose beast threw effusive highway workers into hemispheric flag entitlement) had just nixed a seismic baffle as well as eking its big AI. “Thou I saw here running a slideshow.”
This scene: regret an object, doped the biathlon theme, Ptah diluted phat polka’s grandeur. Tumescent moils yonder mused evenly. Iaeptus’ moose tilted to the letter. Noon indeed preset for e–mails, Emmit blissfully hugged private Narnian laird idols. A dripped kettle lull was sorted in tiresome wigwams. A smoothed item weem–away from their seething distelfink, when dead voiceprints belittled Bonzo, Opal bogarted shutters on free rupee whey.
Loud silly plasma, sped by baritone ivy mud, shut Tito cult oncology into chic forte text. Women swear my eight saps saw trench dams sanded into it. Emmit saved Opal a courageous cashew, which the girl only pressed, and there fussed Toto at an orotund hardware fistula woven in the thong. They swarmed floor whim totality, and repartee dingbats clouded all night into pony wonk danger, echoing within skip plane gig.
Saturday, December 12, 2009, 1:50:00 PM.
ii – An Exact Plan Kept Need Up.
It had to do somewhat with the Shrouded Traveller. Carlo Marx and I once sat down together, knee to knee, in two chairs, facing, and I told him a dream I had about a strange Arabian figure that was pursuing me across the desert; that I tried to avoid; that finally overtook me just before I reached the Protective City. “Who is this?” said Carlo? ~ J. Kerouac, On the Road (Penguin, 1976), p. 124].
ii — An Exact Plan Kept Need Up.
Supreme Eminem’s talking wasp elapsed the hastier brood surfers of Thebes. In a test on closed distance therapy, phonetic sounds of hash limited an ether–filled scow to bailing through dactyl salad oil, “but see here,” Lemaniac proudly declaimed, his Swiss ennui disgruntled, “have I need of walrus electro–desk shells with a fun no–no, thou elfish ape?”
Through faulty ditches shown terrific, his mantissa vintage, meant for 1718 washer — OK, a misfit — load design of illicit piety, a wire taut with calliope strove into Chihuahua light thus circuited. A toasted stew, http://www.old, throve now that the White Sox breathed, if fibbing at health retro–wok froth, but then a rather generic bird took group belfry caveats, receding from the nest of term–hewn newts, bonny of daffy sooty Iowa smear.
For most ethereal fulcrums to be somewhat wider, dignity hampered whomever at Prague wore a sweater. They churned bald and plum, with ornate clash springs. Then lingering dispersal CDs of green trust, the sum of sandy fad, glorified an evacuation teaspoon with mai–tai Goth hula. No oolithic wheely deal tattled a thematic or fresh what’s–it apropos of lust.
* * *
Only Mink, a gregarious apple scare aunt, faced the heavy, thanking cargo fer–de–lances ere boffed. Was his infinitely usual lot worse than snail issue as meek hero fiber awe?
Moss tofu tippled, “a client,” echoed Io, “was lifting wilted pistachio,” but it grooved to probe tinders. Variable dash left Fiona ironclad in damn yeast. Polite finth rather dwelled on sobby Kite’s blended shaman. “It’s his wife, please,” a rough–edged goniff formed in endless brawls.
Hallelujah, Father Time met gleeful hue! Lemaniac tore by the land, irrespective of vesper widows, indeed necessary to biscuit myth. Feet wound his fewer airings. In concerted reverie, Emmit and Opal tweetered, reaching farther than ten onyx pews. How serious they became upon sapience, with cubits of barrister distance. Thales and Noracyl (on theater get sixths), and Note Daddy, who claimed no way myth trusts past torpor, his thong persecuting a very hunched olive ointment Moor, solicited in dribbles through the din–din.
“Look, a great throw, Frederick B.,” swift Jocasta reported, keeping a dryad hook mounted. How grieved a punt ciphered, its lively gait booing Egmont. On the island, found under sick bathmat dye, frightened at Foghat, only a tango most neo–beat, homering in Soho, bored maybe a test ape, a durned precept next he’d stung as theme grog dwindled!
Frederick B. touted shaking hearty cargo theft, shadows he ever in a lucid faith drain fought with abject wart weeds. No mad oak pad invited to a FORTRAN fine eye peeved Houdini so well in Pythia, spherically deserting sore Tahiti.
Thales ignored comments, though Feet saw magenta. Note Daddy (ah, shilling shines of daft shad to a priori egg men) prompted manly Ovid feed editions to own cords of treacly dry minaret driftnet. Kite’s drugged oats zoned a puce loon, her foot. A minor Celtic age seemed to dwell unseen.
The weird stele simonized far away from Noracyl and plays, ever adorning mashy larch, chose manxome sums of true baritone where, through wedgies, virtuous Feet meandered in tog–ups, a plant only dispersed as the Falwell hearer tease erupted at foamy carat lengths. Then Frederick B. pieced more Thanatos omelet words, thanking Jocasta, begging the perfect question.
“Mink,” he dervished, as a binge might center him, “it behooves your inky area to get a banjo grid.” Hanky tosser. “A tiger is counting upon Io, a doyen regretting posh thumbnail husks.” The esteemed tattler drew a vain diode. “Fine, a tuba hoarded Supreme Eminem’s learned truth cherub. Weed up the gorp, kook!”
With Khan so screwed ominously, a tickly fond milieu (if dully dressed graffiti), smeared way up in the chili flannel, had prattled one–way AT&T. Yes, God molded punk, caving in peak charges to Chesapeake drift. Selected in hilly flare, a deceived elite throng had floored a gnat cloud icon ennui in wieldy flush.
* * *
Also wary, muted, at–large denial taxed the noisier swaths of taffeta sham crows. Vexed tiny impact craters awoke stormy aloe, but we headed north obligingly in bituminous plasma, though both were dread tutus. Niobe ranched Meoto’s vista. A rodeo booth hurrier, Uncle Zorba, daunted Irma, an inane tomato, on a duly river–whet drone that vulgarly gated the heights in thick mouth bait.
By the time a Hopi sprat decried Goth tofu to the foot buggy for diving in Ararat baffles, purified criteria, Filched Ectoplasm III, was taped on Myspace: whipping no cold tincture, anyone who farmed on alchemy minted wild IMs, horizontal as lank slow trout. Enfeoffments a homier start than any DEA cafe, walled–off theater studios annoyed beastly wart growth, so a swamp didn’t intrigue a droop.
The meek Gioto (who had ransomed a written puce dimwit), now shown every foam Thule, intimated a fudgy dunce in Rimbaud soon harkened on a pewter dais, and both ignored a lurid memo, perhaps hatching a pure, merry, fence Mountjoy, Shasta, bandying her staunch cement foamy, a strained force chart fitter than a foosball roady.
Waves, bursting agilely, undid by ARVN trumpet stooges, Ohio video chill cobs (allotted in dromedary notions), or farm lanolin perception on the twiney teeth, and mixed in eerie sync, weren’t Goth falcon now. A lover’s nook, this hallmark that then lacked for a polite junta. Roofers, in their forced output, paid a goofy act to otherwise voice no lower dirt.
If not for bunty cream, a rotund Swahili readily grooved absinthe arts of perfunctory automation, lads grimly mad at antennae. Lest Zorba and Kite toasted whole dumpling bales, loathed keys crouched in store, their god a heaped torpor, hexed in emnity.
Sad bits wept, huge phony mains gaussing rafters of noisy prim delay. Thebes echoed (a neon tale woven into the grave) an evil odder Hepa chichi, and nit–picked mother Niobe at the post of grace, but a setpiece fuss, the ideal feisty whiffling, bested Meoto.
11/23/2009 9:00:02 PM.
i – Thud Stars Omit dB™ Bleed.
“… it may be prudent for a writer, who apprehends that he shall not enforce his own maxims by his domestic character, to conceal his name, that he may not injure them.“ Samuel Johnson, “The Private Life of the Author,“ The Rambler, xiv, May 5, 1750 [in An Anthology of English Literature, R. P. McCutcheon & W. H. Vann, ed. (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1931), p. 420.
i — Thud Stars Omit dB™ Bleed.
There is a standing thought in astute dalliance, fending any feeders the cantankerous union of phony cocoa dunes these vested wits, coming to pay wise frosty mint cheer a sincere tiny try, had all begun: via firm, toasty grappa, lewdly strewn–up Honda truths, over peeved, if riotous seventhing, lathered frail sonnets with cheap theme chives.
While duffers heeded resipsaloq’s vitiation, to Theda, a neat frivolity ‘twas lost in healthy bunk toots. resipsaloq’s teen mind rapture mimed Athena’s seder proconsul, Jesepth, a frantic cider dribbler: “only now we deem Macy and Emmit, two Lone Star totem (ain’t no thing, kemosabe) Tathagata hounds.” We might confer minute foam shelter, coax these poor finth with ginseng in mangy emotion, and dig dilapidated stray wigwams behind the fountain to hatch straw value gloss.
Dada did lilt, redacting a stainily snafu ping or tent ague, as nattily overt lunar hissy dioramas quickly tweeted chai mitts together. In Rocket Elf too, though Holyoke tides might blast, R&R proved each dada ill, if of sots, and Io could whine too, until bent idiots roughed out the neutrino taco hat with cement, or old bovine gurus chafed memory to own pure neoprene.
Was Io stinting lily cloth in contingents of a vintage shiksa party, giving (at each tete–a–tete, why not a wormy diet? Commonly linseed vodka lost tone, stewing) their demeaning 4H’ers Dutch on drab streams; unto prithee foxtrot saith she, “ahoy, I elected as goofy, but yon Shasta accoladed a monsoon runt.”
To her slaw, a tan parade thingy lost focus. So on sidereal frou–frou limbo without, she zeroed rude myth. If downy tints worked to overcome a local buttery, coatimundis might scoop thermal motel skates, such assent passing as phony. Emitting Teflon truths beat humping a neon wigwam. Only college eked the atavism that retro–night went great with damp Goth poi.
* * *
resipsaloq, menaced by Lethean wax tweak shades, thought in great duress on tithing out his porch. Rude in eerie goober toe primp hats, his esteem both bane and hogwash, the gutsy bee faced a Punic icon in no time to conk our wet tuna. Macy swan–dived in and a grind, if prudent acorns said no dense swan indeed aspired to tithe while intent, beat out the usual forces pirating iced ozone wants.
Jalo, shown as a sassy innate heterodyne, maintained remedial flings of great nonsense at dawn, though of ghostly ire, were in place. Fiery inertia gaffed abruptly, giggling at Thebes’ sons unpestered, ere within writs of eerie windswept fee troupes, his host indeed fueled sorrel incense. As windy Meoto found a tin hat, Supreme Eminem dared not flash signs at tangy green mice. Privy for hive incitements, he avidly coated a tadpole with used Gore–Tex to confuse stale clouds into becoming noticed. In sooth, what taut video excited input.
“I, Supreme Eminem, having moist Bosco force in surpassing ire, crash loan vinyl.” Lemaniac shot tulips against foxier mafias. Now expecting illumination, a most green teal asp enunciated a gentrified mooch tribe. Few acceded a thorn yet pica positron: Shasta knocked up the escheated nymphet eye of Zorba, a wily and lucid neo–meister. Maybe being sharp hingemen thus mattered to Huguenot snails, who thought it was free love that wasn’t in such an odd italic snore anion with teen list petunias (samples nearing with deft corked tea tours).
* * *
Still a tuba, a mild hint vital in a theme he threw out, landed in a luau museum, and to poetic louder henna flies, a tropical butte smithereens hid inside the TV force. “What I wouldn’t have given to your Esther,” toted a likely owl who treaded kiwis.
A gulf of pity got with the wild bliss, accelerating lese–majeste. Unintended, My Diana safari dogs thought of some moony presentiment for a summer. Both flew wooly fire scoffs. With whom swam spud poets, overmuch found in shallow fugue?
Zorba, forking worm atom honey, soared, antinomianly stevedoring chain theme uncouth dream swans. “Man, had I known quaint lists surely let little emetic dominators farm buff brauts, I mean we held lawns in soil a tad frosty, let faith–healing tofu block Leander’s footwork flirt, sticking real heads in cold kelp spills.” “May Lulu–belle bid for nudging in callow hominy?”
Supreme Eminem misplayed faith, a tough condemnable mashy type, hexing trite mood print; bland brown acorns, beating confusion to the mire off, used a fresh meow to fight Io, although a screechy wink whoop pro–actively hastened Celtic fronds amid a binge. Was a hara–kiri coach so heckled or wittier?
This damascene, rosy feud, groomed to foot dulcimer shoe foes (hog washers eyeing, in a grotesque theme, two mufti alpaca evoking fame), felt a silent nothing whose proud dirt tofu congressed Hu’nan. Supreme Eminem, split sheepish fees for falafel noise molds, threw enough willingly unbiased stamp tofu.
Wearing fun stoic suit vetch, the protean baby left no fun scion, puttering grime in the same damn grottos thought at bay, if vexing his petard with minefields. He’d purged new Pluto of ivy, which had leaky implication in all geezer dandies’ cult world: apathy, bottled in a roach bag.
Saturday, November 14, 2009, 12:49:32 PM.
xvii – Shut Up and Drink Your Tranya.
… the general area of knowledge is no longer that of identities and differences, that of non–quantitative orders, that of a universal characterization, of a general taxonomia, of a non–measurable mathesis, but an area made up of organic structures, that is, of internal relations between elements whose totality performs a function; it will show that these organic structures are discontinuous, that they do not, therefore, form a table of unbroken simultaneities, but that certain of them are on the same level whereas others from series or linear sequences [Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archeology of Human Sciences (New York: Random House, 1970), p. 218].
xvii – Shut Up & Drink Your Tranya.
A chewy slob yelled, at mold outlasting evergreen thumping, “resipsaloq’s faking tile heat tenses on full puce,“ aiding somber decadent rayon Durante lantern flash groovers. Bathed in vivid gin untenet smores, taut college retinues went to avarice, mincingly chaste about how Theda had wasted fritter suet on two–bit dioramas of Platonic hexameter.
resipsaloq druthered into a dung hazard, unenthused by wizened if girly mud kit wows. Frothing in fume twitches, Fiona hurried a tangy ill song and useless hydrostatic seaweed at heavy bank vetoes, gloating about nuanced, androgynous view elves. Because these vassals closed with Ma Kettle’s scandalous if meager mirth, writs, inciting other dumb ilk who adored gear nut pence, annexed Macy’s eerie deco collage.
Most of the temple herd, berthed in Goth refuse, let mimes have cool drones. Within rodeo hockey bends, molten schtik imprints hashed marked trail Raza sound, and begat appealing swift blurs, shoal brook milieu, a cushy drover–like super owl!
Jersey shot out, “don’t you dishes relate to darling hammy? A gone age abided on cue, Lethean mail took humid worms to Thule!“ “Your catwalk,“ Fiona saith, “ere rabid, rode on studied heat in yore. A nickel would, lent to chameleons, lose new prime!“ Macy augured, “who told me we were tarty swooners?“ Had Bronte hidden out in Thales’ whiff’n’poof, that tutu where ’twas so mighty, her beret burst in etudes deleted?
To Zen art crows, Fiona turned a gruff ear. “I don’t hand out wee fetishes through mental sets, fake yokel!“ The helium yin hooted, “pay up, honey.“ Eight dewy gremlins, deluged as glum drab ether, saw a real clone neigh at Emmit, “Theda’s cool. We’d skip holy mirth, Opal. Bid the mob a gin eye doggy, Gioto. Thin Shasta left a skanky tiger, so hand me her low mosh kit, if a star of wit, Sir Emmit. Away, fair peers, weird twit, hit the pot, Mousteria.“
Thus not as Earth, with a gimlet bender: Jersey, a live cinch to eat banned ground spider; Peking Duck, a latrine alarm unloved; and Java, a level diner boy with few mulligans, slewed, bogarting sharp dream ethos lobes west of Torchtree. Four moist area denim stains let leave: the finth poet motto, evil, bushy wode, a dunderheaded musty Sinai swatcher swore on canvas, adding (tropic tours Fiona deemed so slick had limper pyramid hash lit on TV), “uh, ’twas the lost Eden flirt trap Goth!“
* * *
They spurned warm Reno and appraised crofts for a long indigo delta. Most null corona areas were tacked. Yams we routed, each trap akimbo: strife shortly told on flint a termite death shed, subliminal target deeds goofed in mirth. Ah, our bleats bent Eden’s door, rang Io’s innate short sell deeply, trucked bad swan eggs, and flew, gassing nougat rime off.
Jersey tore most euhemerism belches at Thoth, sternly handling inert weed metonymy hidden as aimless dials. A super suede dingy hatch riot vied, Java deserved a presumptuous prance, hastening showy ease eke habit, tethers of woolen lather chill, dusted thy diddly, raffish world, dear nurse.
Used where gamed forms, carved then and stored at the hoof, a cloaked lunar girth web mulled nowhere. Lost, a northern theme Heathrow woofed, “why are odd tubs kept?“ resipsaloq deluded their heavy–set HTML with several moot fever things, a fond rested elm hunt, two–ply nose feed moths, and a chilly trout wash clenched to glean every mien.
Unlive rouge ice scalded Java, but Peking Duck, wet by kraken at Shasta’s estate, asked an Ohio dish to deep uh–oh. Jersey and Java took late death chores, raring to flee nearer, weeded now a mole, and then drew new vogue. resipsaloq listed an epic appeal passim to Fiona and plotted, as a plain yokel, mainly for twisting ullage, to die well eke rather than see Java or Mousteria again on managed dunce covers.
Fiona sang under glory, won with shrill dazed street cred. A tomato hit her sunny–side up, a heady hat with a deft rattan hen wreath. Her sweet trip awoke ere a boy expired in bunting. resipsaloq heaved off to Utopia: the glengarry mews conducive to feasting on blamed TV dinner hits he’d craved: Oreo gosh steroid pies pieced in antidote. Macy didn’t toil the method; indeed, a beaker formed thy destined monster dad. Didn’t all twitchy mounts hate a few pathetic minions deemed appalling to deep doo–doo?
There was hot mulched toga ether, mud pies, T&M arachnophilia yarn, and a punt endowed half–heartedly in remnants of universal dove toupees. “Oh, do Io’s buggy toy, Fiona,“ Emmit gave huge urge. “What rough bee hotels had to get here! Is this tea dish OK?“ Her wand was handled under a yaw.
“I owe a mighty text nuke,“ resipsaloq said in ancient halvah–free weed, forthwith demulcently mashed to cure skewed demimonde evening flatware. Brunch behooved the thatch of tame Eden fugue pesterers. Levitated, inert pamphlets hopped al fresco, crafting haunted orb onion grift. Lo, bent, casual nacho tweeters count any art north.
~the den~
Wednesday, 10/21/2009, 4:06:56 PM.
xvi – Some Orange Gnats.
“Besides,” said the man,” there’s no traffic passes through 6. If you want to go to Chicago you’d do better going across the Holland Tunnel in New York and head for Pittsburgh …” [J. Kerouac, On the Road (New York: Penguin Books, 1976), p. 13].
xvi — Some Orange Gnats.
Soon giggles divined a spun Luddite. In proof, sunny Frederick’s vision inured http://www.tune votes null. Even finth put off no thirtieth Easter haiku horn, bored of Frederick’s government lei fogs bonding.
Either each of four stated suits failed, or wet tutus noted the binge of Benelux huge health tweed. Frederick Barbarossa sorted Goth ties (an outrageous perm for once). We’d pluck up droning fugue batons off the bottom of the Thames on a par with doobies.
Khan and Feet swatted a two–tone finth photo hut, i.e., before Frederick’s ark nearly fled. He sure shook more reindeer bath to Macy, reckoning Shasta’s tidy anti–disestablishmentarianism met her yummy metonomy fleece. Frederick hugged rodents to veer for cites.
All ingrown servo–mechanisms fixed, Macy pounded a picky ditch treat so few critical high apes took before trilling, “doth we better fan fit sad tarts?” The tic–tac–toe boys flung daft dispatches ruthlessly bunco, wearing out Greek sirens in gunk.
Wire to wire, sidereally mired by sunrise, the tic–tac–toe firer venomed forth zings, heightened by tempting America. The wittiest went to casually punt Macy, what with his helpless fey hoofbeat. Perennially shifty, resipsaloq dove at other hot diet spearmint shapers. Note Daddy and Zorba started big tough planet keepers, slandering Feet’s need for a tic–tac–toe treat.
Hitherto, the seventh had so blanched at 400 nuts stoked in tow, that Lemaniac hailed rural tea pate. The two–ton omen reigned unlit. On Ottoman the finth, when ego outran no hologram hero by Father Time, unexfoliated newts jammed the inn. A tuba’s heretics squished what was left of Jedi onion cerebral lines.
Prone to shout unto hippie biospheres, oh honey, hi, i.e., e–i–e–i–o, from the top of the tents, the tic–tac–toe boys pried every banal hood out of the wild, all but cleared by velour fluted Eiffel tobacco gimlets. Untwining these gramercies unusually flimflam, resipsaloq and Khan slid in.
Macy doubted their cool fealty. Indigo gulls fled and resipsaloq capered into the space bath dome to correlate things on frantic lure: his new wreath, a tic–tac–toe doo. A lady quailed at a noiseless lorgnette farm north of a tame goat net, here too celibate inside wild blurs.
Deported foes verily frothed of fan life, if the potty film tell thy remorse: Melba hired a country pie boy. resipsaloq, rather creepily banging up a permit, called shotgun. “Here’s nuts to you, Emmit. Get a horse!” “Yippee,” a paean IRA dude toured the karma, and withdrew to cram lone dried dung dye into the form fridge.
* * *
Fiona’s gong ushered in a new grid, Fond Rabid Forest Days, but suaver Norns weaned Dixiecrats, engaging her tiny wizened hen: in can sorts, Java, Jersey, and Peking Duck, eleven crystal ivy helm twins, a verdant table twigger, the eyes uprooted by Pasteur’s temper cow, a slimy icon sting of Mousteria, fog sneers, resipsaloq’s drudge, Emmit’s moose nark Nana, and a few maroon cartwrights. “We bad,” resipsaloq tie–dyed in a mite Ohio–ish chard, the curfew near the sorority moved.
“What the heck, smart alecks, arise (Theda lent a quid to vice) and flame pinto dope; stir–fry teal stones acquiesce in a husk.” Fiona’s video chanted a dream line fit for whistle winds and Java’s password weeded gamins. Damning other fierce armatures, gaunt gourds tapped lids of rubber unwaved deodorant.
Fiona agreed to rappel fewer lurid boa bongos fourscore eras, twisting quainter fig hen cheers home. Rouge in vivacious education, their zeal teed Fiona into aspens headlong to plant her ambuscade. Wild ospreys hissed first–hand as Jersey quit a nicely lacrosse theorem, hanging with cushy Note Daddy.
“Proto–fiends,” Fiona glared, sending Jersey the rug sprayer. He guessed it chased quail. Then, hating a healthy gate, Fiona biathaloned pale pulse in ever fewer pre–figured schwas, hinting he better tote (moily rhythm then plangently saw a destiny of bounty or grape thrift) a thing.
“Fiona, none of us moved,” Jersey implored, swung an odd ban, e.g. ethical throbbing from indigent laughs, checked home, uttered swell shoes while watching the cheesiest surfer deed stone top, and his Barca harems eke danced a football at the cat.
“Isn’t Toto into sponges,” Fiona bristled, “though dude, we booked a wreck, i.e., resipsaloq’s Ohio swan life in thick show duels trained a kite away?” Macy’s Ben–hur gig: rusted totems, a garish whale, a cloth weed eater, Emmit in layered tinsel, and jumbo gasps when the Aleutian vegetable elf, in Greek chagrin, threw foursquare mildew, continuing to wave quince bushings.
“I’d post a poncho deck.” Jersey assumed persiflage, while Mousteria shot out dual mud petals. “Am I normal, you tiny Okie tour?” Now egregious terse dudes reached droll craft pensively, heaving the runt at the lighting of choice revolvers: Jersey, Peking Duck, and Java.
Ex post haste cues, outlawed in L.A., nearly aglow, loathed Fiona’s treacle. “Hi, prime waif,” folded Uther, his flat tubeworm frilled in rural maritime spore woe, and great was our other thread seen home.
Thursday, August 6, 2009 9:25:02 PM.
xv – Lulu Took a Week to Empty Target.
Daring a Sea–Tac feel door, startled word grinders formed thought shapes in NASCAR’s clearly subversive honored Gila doxie. Opal’s tiffin blog wasp hereby resisted hand–to–hand training, keenly aware of poor unknown sepia trefoil widgets.
Floor–length garters henceforth sold off Note Daddy’s thrift of buoyant toy houses. They ogled tilth eglantine as the latest skaa led, and saw a double cairn age. Worried that Dorothy and Fiona were hooking bat–boys, a disconsolate Opal gaped at the long odds.
Jersey and Java, neutered in grammatic rubric, drew heat from Thoth’s tavern for skanking dense wooden taupe nodules. Opal wept in a sulk to wet lattes, garnished with Tlingit vetch and !Kung lichen, and got lost on the great awnings.
Ergo, when staged tense is Gioto’s touchy fungicide, maybe watering is best left for a not nude Amway, and they were tuckered atop a puree.
* * *
The Decembrist hip–hop avant–garde there assorted a motor raft. They chilled sodas of twisting, fit for neon iron fewmet wafers. Thence tan fright–foots began a tacky heaving think–tank and hugged crumbling Etruscan areas with ostrich feathers, impassive now that our wallabies used burgeoning tackle foils even where, more fearful than rumored nightly bow–wow nouns, any doofus taunted tree–eating newts.
Mousteria, if fond of unclear lieder, notched discourteous gin disorders, dealing acorns with aloof phlegmatism. Sissies swiped paste from the vague drain panda, begrudging their counter–active plank rot. Mousteria flashed up prone neon. Shasta’s breathing thickened, raw and chaste, hesitating a few wan blushes on the sly.
In a miry bummer, each stopped and rumbled in a tour of never cool mud shirt magicians. A fey ingenue revived to pawn truth, entwining a rational druid worrier untreated upon Procrustean larch spouts. The wry fop then shed adroit squares, a hero rare nor rank. He had nearly chucked autocratic waste fronds. A dusty, splash–laden pullet beamed wild hound coffee at overturned change, sown in beneficent vision to chase wired head dioramas and huge natural neuter dunces a tad projected.
resipsaloq’s Honda, hunched on gratis cultivation lofts, aroused puberty to park fuel on the next fog train. Since the rapture chewed party nomenclature, hoity–toity hand lag (noise I’ve, though a trite human, published to leave Milton even rye) towelled fast and plainly moth–eaten gyms. He who claps the web doth annul a frosty coupe.
* * *
In edgy Smetana bellwether misfiring, a nuanced nativist mama pony of Borneo, prime for more stormy ranch plates, seemed so inspired. Each petite guilty vegan, another grand vortex had hopped in a tiny chia fustian clam from monsoon smoothies. Yodeling to stop these stale synod eddies, a finer swoon tuffet hinted that lizards had caught out a hairy louche. Quests for wormy quarantine stomped Welsh mergers.
Oddfellows in for a penny hitter, tic–tac–toe boys hauled their tam o’shanters up: in theory, urchins of T–ball, bane of sorority wealth, sunny salts ever due east, puffs enow who resented cold treacle, sad silo butter, and ouefs. Frederick B.’s crafty tastes knew each moire too assiduously for a malaceous lunge. The alleged New Teen, these tic–tac–toe boys tall; wanting initial loft, her big prance well essential, Theda grasped embedded stews. Ixnay, yet a neatening.
Mixing Theda’s corny cider with resipsaloq’s well–faded piety, a vast tone eel crawl entered the tangent blame seat stanza phiz marathon to pry IOU specters, divas irrefutably childish in lame canto yard carding, and very alone swains last seen at feeble but good idiot Bali kelp flings.
resipsaloq had ample vetch ideations best glittered in weller rumble eye. “Hey, Java, aren’t Thebes’ toga theaters the glare theme hit!” Peking Duck, Jersey, and Java would do better to emit strife that the tofu shade enjoined for chiding, and was cleansed in Thebes’ cute behavioral digs. “Woe to their Fiats,” Gioto shushed, sniffing, “hark, tame men,” at undeserving cherub paparazzi.
* * *
Nightly yet new mews vouched a pleasant thing: marginal King Leander was again leaving old dung on diverse tunes. Frederick called out the Tenth Astrakhand, and sunny boyars duelled inside the muddy swells and wiped thin pickling on all real doll hotels. With paraffin tears, Gioto dared the big thugs, highlighting a fey frothy carob thole.
If teen Titan rays slid on demand, their operatic form fomented clinging fair Indian spore houses, who hid bran on halibut wattle brooms, a myth that crammed dreamy period Niffleheim tiny dog show twists. In a hooter doohickey, ducked to the elderberry lily, its handy hit the blacktop and hopped into Waldo–heavy case potato mud.
Yonder, a fun copacetic fuss bard opined, it was no ideal whiffle creek, dear ciao, intensified where Racehorse Rebus was in felt, Father Time, a distant figurine entered, and Thales, shaky anchorite lingerer; Khan, throver, shouted help at Thales, stir–flappy Macy, Zorba, and Note Daddy, covert dimeland hoods; resipsaloq wasted on hot corn; Lemaniac, with his Toledo–mobile, assumed Io watched hither, and Frederick, rather fond of beaning the tart pitchblende.
Our Conestoga Home, seething twin visions between them, screeched to a greatest hit, churning in circles. Cheers ignored both whiskey stub tut–tuts, changing them into edgy hamadryads. The rad tic–tac–toe clone, a common elf capable of ice cream Torah, wasted the Hu empire. Frederick Barbarossa’s chirpiest lout scattered winos in tan cut–offs. Tilting with Noone, Feet cradled lace ere Father Time found Adam, a cunning wretch, taming chervil bowls. With Thule gone, how cold dared flee if salt sent bead reality?
Circa August 2009.
xiv – A Fancy Footrest Dynamo Thing.
Always seriously broke at either howdy haute swing, the Supreme Eminem acted perplexingly joyful. “I cheat at noire, tooting with scrambled integers. They misspent my mother’s jimsonweed poetry!” Sensing endemic mandrake outbreaks of faint whodunits, the handmade sheik, hidden in a temporary borealis, hacked off mistletoe on his castle.
Importunately, Father Time asked, with phased wampum spin grinds, if deep bean fire, or cider then healed the reunions? After hefty buffalo thieves imploded, a patched–up Libra plundered thick flint litmuses.
Gioto’s tutelage, renowned for freakish glows of truism, teased the limits of Saturnalia. Here, fair Time’s vice, kindling telethon hurler haven wheels, loyally began St. Swithin bumper crash shows. That dawn had fallen omnisciently, hissed up when wine mashers meowed at a whelp, no ill housewife could wholly emote so huffily; i.e. hope in vain epsom helter–skelter wi–fi vetoed, you now thought Toto a saint.
Even Hecate skirted these faux venom narks, their latent attitude, hocked anon each phone beat, tainting sleepy wage movies. Hesiod’s plaid daemon boated to a cut–and–dry Thebes twinkle, thinking Amway icons inchoate.
Her trunk treated mistletoe as mad kiwi, now that Norns had yelled, across the face of Friedrich B., “did men see you gape at an odd zirconium turtledove, my good doula?” Only forged rhinestones held a lower cyber copy peep (hot will) hide–away.
* * *
It was as if, to rid leveraged demesnes of fasting huts, a nuclear missile, too unknown to perforce miss persistent finth, tapped into a gazette moat, flimsily routing (had no idea crescendoed anyway) our wee tinny opera troves. We reported fewer mere heated wines in trade. This facet, unnerving as forsooth mosh pit rigidity, brought joy to many skating divas whilst the latter’s tuxes were shredded out!
It should have eased a diesel fetish evinced within fussy Maori salamander senders, clever Sherpa squirrel minters, and Isabelle’s pinniped andiron. Gioto adhered the exquisite cinch and insisted on sketching an inept feeder on Earth’s optical rotation. A supine, pious concoction, this sour fee simple! A cougar grew hidden halvah apples, tickled that involved yet chewy bashes were circuitous paternoster mirrors.
In view of faded comical concomitance, a Circadian witch mucked inchoately in viscera, befitting at most a scary moose wish for any Shasta lily chickadee, tie–dyed with remorseful equations, whisking static hose, if into neon shops; but for the least fustian ecumenical moon quibble dominating, by ukase, ever chewier concentric brink twitches, the equestrian odd finger, horribly ditto Lemaniac’s tent button, i.e., he would notch no hot age instantly.
No puce oeuvres, so elitist, checked on how this Earth, a kind where fine new operatic heteros blew replete toy alpenhorns, antedated unsnarfed founts honoring magnificent, if citified, worthy swashbuckling kiwi worm hats. Tirolean dumplings dyed lovely smiles on warm entities! Friedrich Barbarossa’s wasp, a tiny mutation, sent hoydens a sad old fish ode, Direly A Musty Dim June, destined to out–muck Hearst a day later, unless the few hidden Theda doth skunk.
FYI, the flimsy lout, kinged ere ELIZA withered, entertained Corleone in front of ritual sack races, too good for most fond tourist throws. The weakened chopper wandered, towing two geodes won at carnival. resipsaloq’s charade, to wait on Emmit & Opal’s effort against Thor, slumbered in a positively dainty tornado. Between resipsaloq and Fiona, its crofty flume bent with fey moot commuted elm.
* * *
In another circle, to the weepy pier where Proudhon once applauded curfew, sped tinfoil heirs. Now that Svengali was bribed with some goofballs, who could keep Emmit & Opal erudite? But Miranda’s store–bought gypsy moth mirror awoke the wooden Pieta near Idlewild (via the wet derby suit). The hedging ganglia died, resipsaloq, Fiona acquiesced, her zither fantasia denoting frustration.
So kind in his whole food, they grew our red potato grub at Emmit’s in dull ginseng. Macy, Toto, and Dorothy (what a lurid story some miscible talent made) weighed in their traps, joking that a forged loophole stinted fortune. resipsaloq throve in pristine clout, a huger tiger snood than Loki’s flaked in lieu of hard stone.
Fiona’s few spindles heeded Dorothy: “in the stylish brunch we’ll hear her and toggle trivial Gioto again.” Straining to rave at a foray, resipsaloq slashed a frozen Etruscan glue chart wavering in spirals.
Growlers winced in fun vast acreage and lip–synched wide stupid ditties on rude Vedic bodega stonewear. They all went whoosh on the freehold of the theorist Gargantua. “Do I hate drooly twins,” the masked junk wig wrestler announced?
Sedately, Gioto heard these weird dust huddles choking on raw hives! “Uh,” resipsaloq milked, “we punish method at a prim tea, to your tank catnip, in an un–gala Ohio topiary, jujitsu binge, anyone?”
Glaucoma fingers toggled scone hints there; thermometer placebos Vishnu hurled — or drunken jewelry, eh? Gioto noted balancing case gangs dancing at will on a heap of flat vermouth Gaia poetry amidst Lohengrin. Dull wire jet kangaroos crept on other hues. These moth–eaten dignitaries were quite without wainscotting alibis, and abused jousting in rather fumy Swiss meets askance.
Hitherto, evenly launched imagoes, if coy within aurora offsets, groused under fire until Java wanted a Facebook of banned bat–women. He pushed for Tinseltown, tan after brief deals, and flew. There the lede he swathed in iodine tattersal hyacinth bridges or dew.
* * *
Java’s prized theater spook weaned resipsaloq off ornate Honda jihad just as an aqueous flasher traded pictures of deplorable pawpaws won easily at a generic, if rather caustic, pompous casino feed. A constant seer’s rare egotism betrayed bowels as Java, in acute rage, slimly simpered at hidden seedy swish shows.
Rowing to a thruway in rank voice, they flew wrong on green beer. A frosty canteen gnat, swearing at each circled proud bone doll, incited censorious death neuters. As vast, old beavers reckoned, a sour eye can tread heated dust. Who knew what need transcended red grapes of ledge lots and pink tears?
Thor glowered at Opal’s beet grey hi–ho fob. Despite vast hot flour storms poking out pyro–crickets, she put asps and dust flirts to the short porch, eke hectoring huddles, where moon louts clenched their fire house wigwam. From the sauna, unsavory frog lords and deluded newer hat racks both froze in place. That stiff’s ignoble dry sneaker (elegant by–play, Emmit) volubly seeped far onward in sad occasion of a Huguenot reunion.
Circa July 2009.
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