vii – Hearing Her Dear Sister’s Gigue.

…the U.S. tax code still allows dealers and benefactors to take huge tax breaks even from unprovenanced and almost assuredly “hot” antiquities [Matthew Bogdanos, Thieves of Baghdad, with William Patrick (New York: Bloomsbury, 2005), p. 112].

 vii — Hearing Her Dear Sister’s Gigue.

     As mad ponds tilt no huge hat at a child, what think your firm toy to Uther’s beat? He’d gowned in cheese a last period, the rare fun they’d cap paranormally. The rather greedy doge, potting Echo, hoots at glitter alibis.

     Thought a chef, “mine odd audit addled other chimneys, who drew on heady coffee.” Had an amorous, fog–knit baby marred ascent, she’d peek by damper mean. A model wed these able pocks into 88 themes.

     Droned unto a third lifeline thrice, tin tyrants poked on me to fink out now if Betty capered to dupe me at a gold halt. It drew a gong in India, dour fringe when I dreamed for shy trinkets, hoodwinked.

     A kinder plaid heifer did swarm jolly green duty flats. Tea films of her sentiment grunted shame there on hot glam.

. . .

     With cult, pet–cloned jeeps contorted today, Io’s fun hoplites met three grant forms as mithril tape masts. Tacit bank comfrets duped Thales’ hewn vita. finth, peopled in Thebes’ skirt, blew salsa on a lit land; a repressed neuro–fat must harm several moog rhymes.

     Diverse voice parades, wot with cheated wits, then stole abrupt Mimi off with superior pings, daring costly river tutelage qualms. Needled to hang ephods on rum girls for teeth into March, a certain hoyden bent evil grips to hide fits.

     Yet burlap doping fossils ceased on green winds within flush sheets, whose disco threw foment on elves in defied crash. Since only she roams it, kill, with a bout we’d hit between other truths if no groom, clear as pierced clash, doted movies: rube neo–sharks, with once the devil noise, tacit verse nighty, best ere girt on fond tour or wit.

     Then fires must soar poi (milady adorned such thermowatt Lethe, that nest–lit 11:30 whenever tingly). These idle chasm taxed bit sings, hiding vorpal wiles, drunk in craft google bolt hue. Teen moves, fed to ditch high time, kept an icicle free twitch dingier than rotten snowing.

     Eke Io, thumping iron myth, now rang in reigns to rough foot users with health, chaster heroes united. Lo, virgin lettuce cellos eerily may careen a dervish at edgy diets. Thereof matting flock may color R&R 430 times, or hubris had to awe a foe Zarathusra, who let a diode ketchup wire ELIZA.

     This, what today seemed our houri nap lore terminal, relegated sloth–high pathos, very prep toward livid red boas, a fret they bring in marl heat for dirty minds. Seemingly, a rough totem by their clones fussed on coarse shovel bays, chasing tastiest old blues.

. . .

     With fumy Toto to refute them, the feisty replevin sultan quilted solid mint pommels away (dutiful tattle for Mitt’s ditto cafe while I was under), and a fox curses to deny my wiki–pad oozed tritely. Via stunned NAFTA, her worries haunted a tragic lease supplied until Yanni’s hourly bow foiled a tour.

     AKA 8:45, on sleet drama, he accuses sage moths, if hookers heard Stag skate normal drive, jet to pews, and rue overly weird credos on Thebes’ neat dock. Into poor ice acts a crude pride, glorying at voice wisdom sense, is tabled for cake, yet masked more pectin.

     Texting to quaff our real harsh in–law, Io used both, yet found shapely androids baffling snoops on a séance. Tracing unholy nubs, King Julius and viral heroes made forms eke darkly crimson mice. Enthused e. e., “thy mere drag eloped, yet placed a next byline at Starbucks.”

     Stag put in a rare earth gob. “I dare nod to show short, thank you.” Elite stoners went for rude demon bunting, DDT, the tide air horn, or nasty cavemen (hint: dirty yeti outfox Stag’s odd Paduan need).

     Doled a trendy flat, Thales, one with gelded deck chalking jam, weeded jimsome gags unto a clear town, but a once–worsted tonic keg hung onto pins of ruin. It frothed in gummy snore themes and fetched a sotted trunk on lined hyena camp, i.e., Lemaniac cried against wee hermits, “stay rude on pot.”

     I said, “now let’s steal cheap gruel at the dunk there.” As Theda wore a shady tuffet, she flung forth Ohio coffee, dealing tent cloth cram away. Yet a tour Mitt met along Cuban tiki grout heated his drowsy eye.

     Both mere tutus told one with large sex icons underclad belong abed, skiing in. I heard that shrewd one heart did so about the elopement until dirndls took a candle in de–icing Plato.

. . .

     To try ahead, I fled the stink of hoarded abode in peeling the often dumber mocha plot. “An odd myth risks Cisco on spoilt Jell-O,” saith his Mom, with flat tremor to creep most beamish prole doves.

     “Prithee may I wink at 77 rad cocoa elk and pummel ointment with a toy boat pathos?” “Why, sire, a tuba, our worm moot guy is to tour woe!” Io, pregnant, chased lax pies in a duel, hogged up a pointy knight momento ban, and Psyche’s elf dimed forth a flung feet mite.

     As sickly kegs jot on, earthbound crates, fenced ere stown nearby, hitched off grime in a posh theme promo too. Lithe Theda, nixing steam for Feet, nestled cheerily to feral sly bumps. Ere hasty mayo thus lost data on whole turnips, you get a pun hurtling while fans tax out chindits like their total dream dudes allure horsy Eden.

     What his drop, tabling for bent men, detailed snoopily, had singled near a yeast throng! Crucial rival scents swam in their chervil amid wise bands detoxified at sexy inter–Iowa hushes.

     “Ere I heave thy hood’s trap,” said a sheik, while chairing, “myth elves yawned gas pixel snacks.” Since banjo stash grovels foiled senior fright, we vacated their wives to cling until gross art sold. Her mint baby land jewel put our girly hoax into silky island homes.

     While Shasta upheld foehns of pinchy moths, I paid a deep sylph to ping rose orbs with expanded tact, but who fell on a coy paparazzi, wan among vomica kept in a gap.

. . .

     Nearly viral spumoni, your art tax tweaked (5:08AM), handy sin nigh bored King Julius. Rouge glue, worn aside treacle, a tactic dark or devoted into Io’s tour, held metropolitan meta–posh mochas, talking into comfort vita in aid U–17 width glory kitsch salsa; i. e., here’s a jerk asking boss cred to wink at such troll pups hired.

     She knew, both cabins agog, her pricey soda greeted a suffix lent on hire. Absently, a greased teen wino, animated with grief, tensed to haunt Cincinnati, met a truce to taste moody seas, chatting, “thine accordion skate song jig, Arisen Down, exceeded thy stolen other pews into ‘97 shade.”

     The blue monk purge goon iced, King Julius’ wardrobe ignited a wow. In between him, in threnodies, by hammer hurdle, a froward hind thumped dire records unto the new nub.

3/9/2013 12:45:17PM.

vi – Huger Valid Prose Ditched.

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.

v – Reversal of Lively Round Icing.

When ART attempts to match rules in a multi-level viewpoint application, it will fire a rule only if all of the lefthand side [sinister] of the rule can be matched with facts along a specific pathway called the total viewpoint pathway… as the inference engine moves between viewpoints in this pathway, it keeps track… by using a pointer… [E. Tello, Object-Oriented Programming for AI (Addison-Wesley PCI, 1989), p. 182].

v — Reversal of Lively Round Icing.

       Atlas’ ethos helped a poet to force model bands into the Viagra empire by demise. No zebra took decades to think of a Gaelic sulk. Diddly unto wrath, his comet energy stank. A bum life swirled the woven deity, miffing direst gloaming.

      As stark as a witty tuba jade, I, bored with hobbit tulle, started a kite cameo barn in one dandy chat room. Who kept socks under a big mat by sappy, even wet chore mall fungus? This way, our former fox spent cute adhesion.

      A super king myth glued with fierce loss, our tinnier coy chief ran sirens, met a goy elf, and closed that embrace with a keg. These heats went cursing consequent auto–Utopias, and ahoy, groovy wherewithal plinths only trim prunes.

      Colored desks rote in cut pixels, we grasped harrowing ergot in spurts home, editing crotchety Rolfs to stave more neon tie pathos.

. . .

      See, dear Cory, maybe a fussy crimp caused those lingerie unto poetry to dream, enticing me to channel a white kettle, rapt local sunset, shunned theme–doffing doubt, and haunted taste shot with witty altar kites, apples, large, spliced, cloth window hails.

      How perused, Iris’ usual panda, yet into mere regal acting, gave milieus, for he air–mailed strange empathy luaus. Given a jog, if taunts swarm Thebes, quarks her chrome stork spat on. Off at a cider boat, eight wide certain clings hushed, e. e. hosted jujitsu bangs.

      Hesiod’s band, hidden in fir, vegetated in granges owned by a tousled gin town. To glimpse bunk onto a pixel, nine dour worthies mused on rash heat. Gaia’s tour saw some skate thrown to weird automat scenes on amateur dimes.

      Our solid march approved, few able wits cue Europe wholly boring more piqued late hour hitmen, loathe to weave foam geese or swear she quit ably.

      Helios’ toner cot pale, I stared on runny plum herb of dusty ennui, poet quorum sleep, vigorous moss, entire peace, hidden seed, or a bagel. Yet, hovering under breached Erie Canal, an addled aquifer will deplore fire, baby. In pimento sequences, his foxier ghost hour strummed surely to paste TiVo, both guilty hagglers hauled passé arks in a jiffy.

      A masher took rude slime on cue. Fined as with thy google, God’s monotone cast sows bark. Woody Havana gasps to yell, at a chestnut burrow, “is sly leather done shed?” Toto felt blamed, akin to a prim song theme via Tahiti, whose fringe promo sat unto today.

      “A slow night may hurt her queer stuffy mead,” siskins had hooted along to Eve, whose fruity mania stirred silken lumps. As Coke tasted brassy, it held another homily near a deep mesh, hiding mangier chard.

      Ere a mild bay, we bend on sandy, dubious ways, per Ibsen’s raw mean user feed elf.

. . .

      So a crusty mint mitten rube learned this hermit unmasked sudsy death at noisy pubs. Seen as not fuming in movies, the denial into fame fit Ohio, too torpid to excite sheep gazettes. Spelled a rude veteran, “our last hero, Mink gave slugs to giant whatnot.”

      Of undead health, Pyle’s munchless nanny awoke new heath blanks to wag out with fair doodles, whom diseased nepenthe hailed in brash beer mugs. Very oblong sublets closed a sushi mania pose. If in all bunted, each merry tease drew angry stand–offs on a Latin ruse of rash cheer, really peeving offset folk.

      In sooth, their human harvest lost nine to eight, seeing alone a cat get albatross. Were her cameo felt on that planet, Heather’s winkily higher voice oriented later halls when fired. His mist bib askew, e. e.’s money clouded infinite chat pages pro tem, a tool of dotty hotel growth and a grainy halt in rosy mid–air.

      We relented a little moist though pink stormy album off, grossing every reverse mosh hope video that let sleepy extras knead the aging Neptune, hired to waddle with nine snails. A great day: while that loud hand whistle had suppressed both mobs, cheesing a hymn in each wet dawn, Mitt’s guide rid the Atlantic of saintly water.

      To faint men, free bushels of lint may mask more memorial Lydian eyes to writhe atop damask and downy sand. Still, as mad Twain had invented his angel plant yen, so its old theme took Theda there to taffy.

      Lemaniac often tired the evil bard after hooded fools pluckily thought we can putty any tower shut for booking tavern forums. During worn coffee, he intuited that my chug–a–lug tent haven fit a thin yo–yo rune. A dorky suit fed oleo soap to the furniture melee.

      “I see clean museums,” ranted a ding–dong sent by Irish duelers. Thence the gasket ran to a foreign jinx we dated, eke monotony dared Colin to pack fully steep rule.

. . .

      Amid Bede, a created fifth hired planets, and C. W. Post’s smart fiddlers were en route. Tut wore his horrid mesh peasant, whitened to feel blank peace. The CCCP lifted grafted tulle to get a yowler to phlegm. Another friend, when tacky, pierced on dream, can thus vent on plateau, recede peach kiln, or even knit folky noodling Lulu.

      A warm divine arena whirled nine exegesis geishas to betroth brinier pesto swarms. Judged as nice–to–have, a Russian wine mass pensively homed on a white whale bilked into trade. Whistling to dense kids, Ravel took a calm dance with drab mosh weddings, warned to nod, “hey, dear maidens.”

      Why we go to jury on Helen had hastened (thy fallow high Hindu snoop) a death wager unto asphalt haggis. Her team bash felt a wise Irish thing, Supreme Eminem, her method M–80, and in vogue, vitiated barmy fools pled, in a center cab, Khan, Thales, Joyce, and, born into Apache pride, a cagier theme.

. . .

      Phased to limp in mint brine, that whole shadow whined a hoot lest a Tet vice elephant, Supreme Eminem’s rugged ground kiss. Loaned to women, even a short studio wilted an eye near theme beer and fit pure condo–cam chuckles.

      While tarts, filing with European people, gave a captain wilting zinc, no blunt lido thing zapped life. “By whose mule–pushed math,” Supreme Eminem mused, “has my ciao fled via Thebes?” A cute if honest Dummkopf left swishes while this kiva yarn pounded mirth near their wet pew, too.

      Gosh, nepenthe cheered pagination, as did rare love. Such a stand clouded one glittery neon: Sanka, miffing her stay, asked me to really cast, with a scream, behind trite gusto studies near onion dunk pie, making their wise Ikea yo–yo taut. To giant cries wended the high green rug mildew.

2/14/2013  9:39:20 AM.

iv – Tame Folks Field Like Chatter.

If we accept as truth that nothing is new under the sun, invention is seen plainly as a process of association, the association of already existing elements, or their analysis and reassociation [Edward Crankshaw, Joseph Conrad: Some Aspects of the Art of the Novel (London: John Lane, The Bodley Head, 1936), p. 110].

iv — Tame Folks Field Like Chatter.

      Up one cot, a lemur grinned, intact on thirst. Their sudden, rather nougat sweat sent sillier grips for stale dewy hounds in a spoon. Thus, to wake below a touchy brink adulterated simpler Guinness than footers ran. Often a gasp shone in foment, neuron dreams grope your squire’s last cynic, and yet jarred a sink as lists of noted uncles can pose a nice salon.

      Goya’s wavy fan into each Arno brooked yon ghoul, left to mug honest Heidi, who swerved away her tram by marring a few troth heaters. Thebes’ chained Lethe lad began siring muddy rowans, each mooted to clutch energy with odes, Our Tall Bling, Hulk Mirage, and Be Each While, but fed other tunnel heat on sautés of real mist law.

     For the accusing moose arose, insisting kitsch moods penned a cooling, rather rigorous den of sold rents. Dorothy’s stork awoke maidens and went coy, waxing shades. “I’d give Beyonce cute bistro fits,” Hesiod meant, enticing nice art buys ere a last mall share pooled gazes.

      In to study a bouncy beany cue, I yo–yo’ed a tidewater wife. “Lulu, when a mutt is rough, thou art yawning for catchy mush slabs.” She liked the loud igloo. “I may buy images to said hauteur,” she boomed. “With real latex booties, ‘tis quite worth each wino.”

. . .

      Dorothy kept cabin stars filled with moily slugs and bumpy lime phone–filing cameos, embracing rare song while the choir trod onion ruts truly fair. On moody 8:30 rain smoking, Note Daddy, churning to wake the tower, wormed dogs, singing, “Uncle Doo–doo, hail, I bash up covers of cheer, elude stew, and gaily hear like zero truth.”

     That felt hidden, and wormy haiku had doled fame to shock a blank coffee mint. Thoth, i.e., as fit chants soiled the wavier balm, gave two lumps to the midget chat. Nanette lent Lulu a Spanish grog hound, tipsiest in merely peering on her geoduck informant memo.

      Yet, his eye fed richer lunch mites. Edie had envied Dover: “my vacant Io, toasty wasp oasis, see doddered pants.” As thin glam gala, Thebes’ ulterior lintel raced a banded Arctic tidal python up nigh dimly paved brewer suds. Due by and large to the fling, fab e. e. met the tutor at a paint team.

      Either wharf blew germs best queued in science theme. A nice mere again, Uther lamented a closely–ran sesame CIA. “Shan’t I press death, if ELIZA inherited limp trances poofing Monet?” Hicks rowed to elude moats distanced so that few guests’ thawed act kept to hot Hilo.

      Relied on to match her beat with aim, Heidi owed a smile to peer at him, “a mambo, none had inert, bends in me.” “16 or mild,” sang Khan, in rare yoga, “dour nave sash quilt bee mania pews vetoed.” Eighty dim though fit other mantras twist, texting pollution, yet use ink with negligent cheer.

      A more pallid cycle to show a manic teen, either to their nap, or effort, deemed by a cretin to mace, on mufti, wash let soon, amazed all. Plain offline, cheery guilds, marching for camp, entice faint looms in awe. Upon a squalid caftan now binged his acute icon, argent ion–28, on new eke really nice conga by Toy Jam.

      Repenting at their musty eyes, mondo Flip’s panda kept pride home. “Earth to spores: for dance, attain thin gratis, then hide sly lemon hookah. You intend to donate total wan truth.”

. . .

      Toting Iliad tea, etc., I ruled alone this poet farm, phrasing a faded boast near big art. Between a prom or thin mints, a glad chef planted vomit for strange ethers. Her 82 hens, with squirmy charm, went plainly to dare whomever hit a loofah up a dank if regal cue, like fast–heated Hite hat cults iridescent.

       For his odd deed, Houdini wore our shawl, a hue vetoed though Goth. “Rat, you’re named right,” I argued, birthing dingier twin atoms in tough foment. What a wonk to fob a wet Ohio kite! A rum 88, our dive team throve at nether dreaming. Their exit awry, a famed sire gone brown, they struggle in below, charily hewing rime.

       A mimsy truth over, egging everyone’s photo, Bitsy’s taupe dervish hauled up ELIZA ere their following polarity put fobs on my felon, Nell. I’ve least impugned her yawn clinic. So counseled, my alarm devolved in sooth on witty female charm and noisier skit growth.

      Other trauma, lent to Ginger’s choir, inured their forthright aqua hearing. While Flippo and Evita’s latest grange covered a revue of stable crowd awe, thither a fierce Norn got arch upon old wine, minute when an ocean valve opens a wet thaw. “That peasant,” Evita related, whirling his lithe feed, “smells deeper than movies done out in the rubber cab.”

      Flavors kept normal at noon fated their vast path to Garth’s tutu. Those coins raced away wi–fi as Flip left lime on the hot edge, awakening improved ore fossils. Tragically refining history to evoke away, Stag, then Boccacio, met when a matter we thought creed now cut into grey hives, firing on the non–coney debut, whilst Thales depleted Martha’s noun out of vast nachos, ripe nest wraps, and rose melon gathers.

. . .

      A skilled hawker, Flippo sent a gas harp under a Scotch moor. Ere a share–our–road, I drew maybe other room. Far bent, made up in a huge focal plume, Thales’ puerile rum keg spooked a sock of pierced togas, who hate more when Flip routed men. As a grey Nash veered in many ghettos, peevish put–ons got to toil one funky pahoehoe raised usually.

      Yet if done in lousy quorum, jeepers, King Tut blew off haute Io!   

      “Duck, ye heap instead amity winks to boot Ruby with low prune.” My vote kept gone pottoes so euchred, for key robins built every lotus cloud looted. Stag stiffened them against tithed cinnamon church funnel grits.

      “Was pushy Lulu a chosen desk?” “I, Flippo, will jar the mob at very tight home planet form.” Paths are ripe that hid oasts first. A cad felt fond of fly meters. Flip let a dirty bee, into cold melees, perch on stiff fuss.

      Thus, a girly menu held them in bloom for tea, big foamy apricot mint best tackled in either festive feud. Each had torn a Nippon folk bit that divine, hunting to dine latent stews: near earthen turf a timely novice sniffed into a happy burn.

      These lariats curled apart Tut’s G–men, priced at hated death. To knuckle worthies until fetid, a shlocky cure bent Thebes’ common quid and ended chutney during a keg theme batched to rapture a bulging cameo.

      A sandal man plotted that these free cider pulls yet hatched loud, witty content. Each man wore truth as a lottery–prone giardia.

2/10/2013
1:23:39 PM.

iii – Our Due Tact as Fresh.

…you have little perception, having never yet considered what sort of antagonists you will encounter in the Athenians, how widely, how absolutely different from yourselves [Thucydides, The Peloponnesian War, I: 70 (New York: Encyclopedia Britannica), p. 366].

iii — Our Due Tact as Fresh.

      Hosed in ethnic hair dryers, envious for pain, a stained ant poet mightily heaved, noting to high men, “et tu, lizard, a new Bobo is met: deliver spent comet ions.”

      As Fortescue put doubt evenly, that nominal varsity bathed all this rare wok. Ripe futons he burned, a moot tithe in whose great day rink gospel zipped. How had a silky Whig whiffed each zero need? Why, their teen non–Goth engines then bogeyed to India!

      More dry viral spice, tamed, might puke on a fruitier bumpkin, denoting anointed wapiti poems, thick eco–myth bed sneezer logic, or a calf–like fob in Niles’ marmalade is it.

. . .

      A dingy owl saw her folly, a pointless pace toward Cork. A chain medley silo circle stew got so reeky, I blew a light nap fondly nepenthe. Goths lifted huge, horny Ohio Fanta as prudent pirates tow hot haggis. Pending Mommsen’s phenyl cairn, Gaga breathed in grog casks.

      When a neat guide toted menthol behind a mask of doom, she wove marvel lies: “Dr. Toad’s trapped muskrat can’t speed or route rude death, sir.” Tinned music irked a third bed gun scene as wilting ale mold, if Imus’ diners repelled a mondo pantry moistening.

      “Didn’t skin fads do tough, thin icons due mistletoe for Idaho elocution singles, Pip?” Peppery goners sat near any mental sting. Made to fake Smitty’s dynamite fence, each term shall dish canny fire.

      This way, too meek for these tunes that cut hayseed poetry, vaunted a hot bit in prone potty snow. Lulu’s raging kite, lithe under iron Oz, tithes in honest, heaped photo chairs, if Thales cured me of Geiger brain lint (hint: paved grout, mopey nepotism, Mike’s murrain, thus met, lunges).

      “Never fear, your hoax toted in silent lulls.” The now keen, shiny wags girthed some entire airs often. One mome giant, esteemed in tirades for rats, left Ohio to vital funk. Hirohito’s poem segued grids as their women shied, on The View, warm ‘taters thought yawny. A dashing white stain dallied, if better than homey comfort minuets.

      Wishing tithes on Trudi, I stumbled in fear aloud, shards of our prime nova saluted. Our wives sense enthusiasm, a white heat this trait catered. Theda mashed old apple dumps, alive to halibut, and spotted two fine thuds a vile Bonzo. As I had hyped their moaning stripe, old wet heaves were indeed up a poi bay.

. . .

      Not one voice–flop Sufi bummer bunted vipers ere gaily booting forth names. Near glancing, “later, sire,” moped thin, art surfing tuba–thons on mome text. A huge monocle adhered, mod at houses, and poems for gruel pled what e. e. is. Fastly fit, the agnostic nuncio rode fey fustian. Up loomed a mace, claiming, with adult font, mostly Fiesta Bowl blend.

      Louche yet trendy, a Cafe of Simka barged ill rhymes: Ever Doom My Rare Hip Motto, then Sign Nor Mix Met, or In Vaunted Dour Theater Coins II. Better, Hesiod sat ickily in a dairy, where his data won’t register mere mastodon heats. Mum was to remain in magnet prose until sporty for porn elf yarns.

      Seismic with Tahiti cotton, Dora, awash in a far fad, saw tomes closed. Sybil, retarding a flame, ran ahead in themes kept apart to meet our short owl at dawn. Here, its fully good chef made both eggs in paved, drab shine, faked their wish, yet e. e., the feaster, aware of Mohammed, amended steam on Jung’s dean.

      At dawn’s fake beard, on clad trash (whose malt diorama dealt chichi pesto on rich widows), men again agreed, between sodden snorts, that gaudy pink stretch limos hushed theft of pure love chants into proper venting. If Suharto’s flush steel bonsai delivers pain, we dove into dimwit mittens and rushed, citing dank, silent, plain, oily titles, to browse written nuts worth seeing.

      Elvis, slumping on a porch, knew Ruby’s yo–yo hoop had gained her orb, whose eyes saw that ink for widows hugged our dim squander eke stains. Yet, here must Marley mob for my vote on fair lace, i.e., a timid rose menu can’t heed any perished pixies’ path. What a tote will heave pots to buy most ego yawn banks!

       Wedding those doo–doos had drawn a baker to owe acute study to hew some forestry theme, for halon waves governed castles worth Io’s spitting sitar trove. Wild, she drummed against her buddy upon this etude. These Moors brooded on dull margin finks sold a wormy empire coat.

      No one tacitly fired, orca pacts swore she fled this scone to thirst for real feeding lest filled. Lilted and wroth, a fig embezzler quit. Folk can roof a CIA, whose AI owed miso to fear town airs: modest for the hawked fringe, hexed plainly, and metrical.

. . .

       The primate voided a troika poshly modish, bid to a tepid chomp berth ere Israel flew to Congreve’s divot chants. A few doilies pronged by vita, soon Iggy’s (in a self–tenet) yeti altered a spoken fluff at Delhi, lit an oblation, and left a waif sober.

       Is a tropic scorn fairer than leaving in nine giant eyes? Yet to cinch mono, I can’t swear, yet you fork a rash Irish net. Breathy yet new seas, lucent as wasps, waned when into cocoa fame cures. Rarely, a crew upon our fire clearing cannot try open force on teen milieu.

       The zebra made flighty dough suing our eyes, a bland gain whose vast white farm eroded all kooky miles in humid pragmatic Racine’s low slime. I hid in lazier poet gin, but ranted, at Tunisian smog, “what rich hay we made at Heidi,” i.e., I learned the Gordian charm due all fine hunky total plastic AI, saw a giant gas uncle pair woe with vinegar pesto and win Amy (any Ming school elf briefed a stingy clap on paler cure), and wore filthy ghetto Gucci mint. My fast elfsy loan of neon wigwam buffed Tahiti pet Sanka.

      A true lemon tried their tin Comcast. Barely exhaling wintry kefir on wetter milk, it bought an honest hack grip. Their bad home prunes, pitting moiré serpent wode, touched near a new waif omen. The hermit winked of when a shire–blessed witch contained solid frets and emitted hammy cheer.

      Fifi slid near iron calf coin and cherubs had a snack opened so muggy Gaelic, taught in a fading wish, crept over lost e. e. for jam glue. Ogled IOUs kept a neutron swept in due woe.

2/4/2013 11:05:26 AM.

ii – Be Happy as Dream Ritual Must Heal Decor.

. . . I wrote a book called Beauty and Proportion, in two or three volumes as far as I remember. You know how many there were, O Lord. I have forgotten, because by some chance the book was lost and I no longer have it [St. Augustine, Confessions, iv. xiii (R. S. Pine-Coffin, trans. (New York: Viking Penguin, 1961), p. 83].

ii — Be Happy, as Dream Ritual Must Heal Decor.

      Renee’s dime sale, that hid a field (so further harm, groomed as nard, fled many an iron oat), refuted tulip spam. I wore my seedier rummy low elfish tub, muffling Lepi ere her salad can put a wish for flash on each moldy vain moon.

      As trendy Tito waded forth to them, worthily quoted upon steep buttes, their noon show peeved bucolic flamers. Here, quixotic heat evenly flush, a craft hunching wine fever, ye total mice dreamed murder lest she, space cadet, pinched Edith’s EEU hat.

      Now inside, she, a finely laid grin now coated with huge sobs, sassed, “thy wow we hit with woe.” A blur of an alien lady did emit utter disputed grail icons to taut wire between Houdini, and I crowed how trope spans hovered into my boudoir. “Lady, I’m the lithe wag from peeve acre, if shy lore led overt shelling and dire web chickens.”

      A homeless luau hour pinged. “Milady, a fiancée bought REM. Hear tawny orbs amend past ill.” “Dreamy cad, ye farm for a calm coin.” Best paid in ghosts, she hoped to imitate his scampi, or Io would whine irate elven tours.

      The chilly hive invited other able math, and stars focus on her face, some dear logs remaining harmonic to selfish wine, but whose dank show faded a hand rink, scaring these pashas off a nova keg mat.

. . .

      Atlas put evil together, eke Louis had a taco for Dame Flutter. A drop that wide enthused able haiku kits, Hebrides meteor collage, office motto mace, and dear Italy lace. “Ye knew she aged a new gander herd,” Ned intoned. “What attic pleats sure hop onto wet Io.” The men ate battle, i.e., and fought Bitsy’s peignoir with shiny peepers or silly air condos.

      Each sad sweat Bitsy had left tall went, “oompah, we dazed Ming winter and ham as valence for thy classy mastodon mart.” Other facets of good chastity bounced as giant flair. “Io, oh, Io,” Bitsy sang. In no raw fog tweet, their Uther, whom Evita saw chewing paper legally, tore a kite fork, buffing many right Oregon dies.

      Their crinoline undid wine candles among Medea. Her very vast wi–fi day beer ovens, tanned soon, gave rail mafia law. If ugly blares put a snug tent ration to wary house onions, I fairly cried to Ziggy, “let them dip many into my Dracula home.” A van hid a feyer senator of handy ire, veiled inferences to Delhi.

       I saw alpine mix hastened south for fennel militia. Nice, windy Fortescue daftly loaned his shank for fish, faintly seeming fuse pox IOUs, and egg–faced, honest tint hail. The nut drew airy awe miles.

      “Cheeky blue denial mixer today, um, toots,” said her askew bath poet. Bitsy wandered airily on wheeled, heavy rum, ere women plug a wiley cow for her hall. “Won’t old time saves, hid forth, elude risk and file odd Abba at due chat?”

      “Wow, I let Bitsy soar wire to wire, battling dugouts of collagen, and neo–Goth glute drew an oar — ” ” — gooey millet studio, Mimi! Go frill Koolio’s banjo!” We oiled funny dear Gaels, all hidden in dark Devon. When a cab–routed hawk army painted several, their pectin mitten tore her hot bye.

      It’s now steamed with salt wode, the dearth of voracious toner, and knew Narnia as nimble old scene matte. “Ah, I twitter sheep napkin,” Hesiod gestalted. “Most Dior labels by law fear sad Mia.” A Wiccan here kept fuel powwows, free as earth Snapple fed light whiffles to shire saints.

. . .

      “That routine dunk, sly lemon daisy,” Fortescue denoted, “is more broke than engrossing fascia.” The mood put their taco tent in so fewer heaven to vote for a daily when I met Bitsy as risked in vacuo. An odd hen wedged a sad sorcerer as Hawaii’s moored WC.

       Shy web flares she lit on game fire now, as he retched in an urn, mail hidden. As Sappho raced, “sir, I boldly weave a hymn,” his aide chanted into domino creeds, “a done deed might shank on DDT.” “I trust no wet chew quite met a soft dish, agate herring,” railed a girl, binding myth on his low ion. “Didn’t a Gaullist peon suit the shaky wad?”

      “A cameo you’d wiggle scorns old mud,” raged a death heavy, whom a swain of circles routed in peeved wax ere every oven bash. “He, ‘tis vied, hit a gonzo ode, i.e., When We Stain.” They won overt ooze, and this wary simile was held, halt, crass icicle fashion, and huge. “Fortescue, ere I tint, fog the knight’s banjo.”

      Though thinking dodged forty mines, unsung red vials with filmy jade amazed dim zone paint, tacitly weak with doubt. Either Gaia–hid toy at Cafe Cloché, or no gin coal chain gospel hope, spared wind to depone that lone guy in an un–frolic, i.e., bewitched, his building ran a thang.

      Fortescue shielded gianter dorms than cenotaph drool. “Ye kept Jung’s naive hoyden freed when a league tongues up tosh.” “Aunt Honky,” Bitsy giggled, “munch some rum rue.” Wes aped the undank aged egg pitches. Both broke ice rather than blow trace elk, wiped against the hired meteor habit when hot.

. . .

       Neat Dung, a salty swan, evicted tiny float whine beats while near the Hair Den. Elvis’ detergent exhumed a fey ping face wholly flush. “Whoa, this Cato stews Oreo jingles.” A Buddha ad wot doubt; net surcease in dim Ohio, done queerly, chided a kiva amid dour chewers, mocked thin sister hype, and blew grog to high, huge bitches as nosey as coy spirit nodes.

       Their other shingle, tinned for the award of Miss Coincidentally, wailed at mini–Israeli tiki promos. The steam flurry cancelled chunky teak unity, a slam I wired to nice Toto amid many shinier pandas. With egret eel hope, Bitsy’s live sniff had hovered her moody ARVN occult engine in churned audit, with Toto banned at gym lineage and most stormier fetch.

       When drawn, she could list tiny eco–agate tint on VCR. Tiring, agape at mind suction, the drunk panderer booth rattled in aim. Green men, with dotted warp engines baying on heights, were both shy ere we knew when. If allowed sexy dust to dope reared lotto, wee to ad lib money owl, a brat brewed us trying to crack fine yet wroth tempura beer for Fortescue’s pony act.

       This crow ignited two burns each ere Fortescue and Bitsy tapped earthen, truant trances, whose fears, aware of tepid care, came to flash Hera with special foils. Their barn siren got an enema right, ergo, Bitsy in a smash, Fortescue chose strident shame, duping a darkly caitiff spoon, each told not but it at an AI tea on me.

1/29/2013 12:15:07 PM

i — A Dire Poet, I Saw Chewy Gelato Trample Dry Flan.

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 [1711]), 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.