Diets Of Sacristan, & Succor, & Seek

Do you think they will riot. Some great passionata. A capitulation upon calamitous exertions. Would that the succor of the seek be to mind tendering anything greener than an occasional hitching thumb.

You know that old mother nature don’t real mind comparisons. Not really. No in fact she likes them all covered over in their thatches. Hiddering up their camp like the weird flotsam and jetsam tumbling out from under the hot lid of a pot.

Yes, then there are grades, and hues, and scaled out wages of jubilant thrift. Ergonomic precouncil. The skittering Draco slumming it down pavements with breaches of his mission flying for the pole.

A spindler slicker on a rat back. Conditioned by epistles of extemporaneous gestalt. Tenuous distractions in an early test of the litmus. Fixing on the high mast a bear of the Kodiak weight. Newsome and branching out fleeting dam near a full tidal wash.

The animated dreams of antiquated charisma. It is no mere abased and contemporary state of inherent miasma. The borne again citizenry don’t need to swear up and down the streets about nothing like righteousness.

Soon as your tee is to bat it is to begin the series of steps that will lead you to a full capitulation. Of your every last fear. The change will be tremendous. Mac! You will be among those standing in viable mean upon the very breaking of the circle of control. All them folk you know with a vested influence in the fate of some little bunny fu fu.

Cycle of life. Yippee, aye, aye. A gladden themed dei of the avuncular realm conditioned. Here by his gestalt the lad approaches a workbench and says a prayer for the light. A matter of werks and those things by craftsmen drawn.

I would say the commons are not the shanty full of dillies. Each waxing on the folly of chili pots brewing too long. Soused and taking to last call for the hounds and ruffians still outside in the door yard withe less zealous observers of the contested friet.

River Spot

The burden sings and the river wakes. Drama swims with occasions of current and slow churning repasses. A lock and dam on the hollowed patho of an old Jerry log jam.

I can only imagine the tidal wash of pressing wind on the retainer of the suspended lake. A sense of the pyriotic seas gaining in scathering currents with each flounce of a cinch. Not that every cache on the back of a whale lucres these shores.

There is the anti up of adamantine innerspace. The quintessential barbecue of an eskimo spouting off his wisdom. Like he has been to Colorado and back. Went in the service of a funeral. Returned without so much as an ashen heap. No shittin’ .

The very brains of peas set out on skewers in a slow frozen state. Cuniframing a spasticated expieliation upon the mark and Dagger blade. A stile of comfiture broad in the systrum of clanging train bells let knowing what becomes us in the loose conflagration of our salty figures.

That must be the tale of it. The verbose and the contrite cross planed in arguments of unremitting nip and spit. A swarum offal egg them menial bees on. Let that our exemplar would take a leap and jump for it. Into the river unknowing of his place of reentry . Only that this might be the end. And certainty is gone from the crux of his hopeful carriage.

Clemency Of Prognificant Lytreses In Baste & Hurd Divination

Props should go out to the barrier reef and the back fence and the chasming of frozen quarter plash. From the high and mounted passes to arbolic imbridges, the frequent of pathos in the culture and mythic tantamount of available avenues for traverse and hop a long freight.

There is a space of exemplar consistency in the cornea of the animalir eye. The cascades, the fountains, the carousels, and the mansions in heaven. The meadows brooken tythed with sedgerose and lorilie holt. How courageous the manager of torper. His ancient and menial mental store. Always returning from near points nil. The mile mast, the monarch milk, and the doting modus of apparently tardy deli cleavers of a nosegay to the proper feat of probisquine receptivity.

What with noone available equipped to make out glad. With a turn of the wheel there is simply the downed gait. Alrighty slant that meets with dymn in mentions passing. Quaint and contrapted the semifores of flyting triage in arbitrary lessons dusty stamp. As would come about in seeking out the penchant for no more reckless dismissiveness of the abrupt and calamitous.

If the crashing of the bill upon the emperor’s plate proves a jagged course of salted porpinquity. As is it to assail your tastes with surfiet and to the point of blindness. Beyond sympathetic requittal. Assuage only in remorseful mulling of fruit upon the palates of head of stadium cheer squads.

Time befitting an old gray wanderer’s domain. The running passes of field and stream come to reckoning. A crackerjack sketchbook in the hand socks of the feigning auditor. A public Canty tolt yahoo Jimmy not to get stuck pulling sharkteeth out of the sand. That’s the way you will tout horses instead of laurels. And all will be good with thoroughbreds and doodaw

A slakers tin it make out good cup for a water fill in the spring thaw when the little wheat remain. And the year round grass peaks back through. There are bout hilly ho the prayer go out for temperance and miller’s crown. A bit of gumption yes, but the teat toll on witless cats atop drawn tourrilous poles.

Well it is of little interest but for its subterfuge. It’s grinny by the nape thick. Start, and start again. So for nimrod and runaway Jim the wild wins. And it’s nice to have baseplayers in the band. And for the blues to get an occasional banjo strum. Holy moly if only it made sense on multiple fronts all juggled about and periodically brought back to the merry need for acquaint.

Saws, and lineages. Cut and drawn. The blessed jig. What career of rampant tropicals to have the goose down by the backwater creek just watching an apple floating on the current of its stream. Slowly, much slower than falling. Lazy, in a lazy in the stream.

Verdun Alles

What could ever come between those in the middle. Likewise what slakes could be drawn to bounds comprized. How does the sockhop and the hoedown remit to these Koans. To merit an exceptional mean. To whisper of no illmet conquest or malaprop in regret or shallow qualm with societal norms.

The Moon it urges occasional Hel to belch from her grave. The washing of hands after succinct effort signs throes for a set of templates. Aegyptic pans knickerbocking trampoline camps in the midland of auguries with a long slow arcing panalopy. Lost in the culling truck of the disporters it spins adroit oft and again.

Meadowlands amidst. Several hobbing galavants exchanging Dada sticks to draw the rose line across the wind blown grasses. A graceful bluebird blushes. A fancy litter of stymied rag handlers acquiesce between raucous hoorahs and colloquial geste of hedges and cold bawd hours kept semphry fulla gnossis..

A geste for the roadside hoggies. That live forested in little quagmire boggies. How they draft and horse all the beef of folken manners of matters about the qual dodge. The gumption for practices in need of tempering. Like steel unborn. Somehow lost to the mucky slosh of hinterland gill and vine.

A drawn cord foundling in Hartwick. The penchant beyond the green. Bawdy equipped in the rambles and bugouts of bearded folks surmise. The onerous sanctimony of parallax unaccustomed. The rye, he insipidly tanks the ginny for her easy lambastes, her puddle Monti of fellian richmans’ pride.

A parsley standard insconsed in the tremendous statliness of a hundred thoroughly antiquated things. Like people of a fretting inconsequence. All perturbation in their victimless scheming toward hanging red flags. How says the mensch for his term. By malaprop or euphemism? To beat the band or to gain something titular in response?

Do not bother to bring answer to this mystery. It is both mott and for nought. The mete tempts like blood. To carry on in argument or worse. There are the holy days and there are the holy fairs. The ability to adapt and to change has the ability to be steadfast and sound. The act proffers its time for a charge. And the yoke is fierce and broad. Sympathy for the reckless tonight. The spirit travels far.

The Omnibus Augury

At a remove from a West facing wall. The notary opening up her longstockings and pilfering the gratzi welcome to bear it toward another in geste.

Stingy mitres. Cocksure kissing bangers looking out for the hoodoo. With a Chiristian Church of the America’s being consoled. A whole way of looking the other way inconsiderate at spotty cupid slights of hand.

Dimly lit and menial wit. Hard trade for the unrepentant dirge. His slack and lackluster taste for the gruel filled hunter’s bowl. A goof of the bottom feeder school. Apprehensive tailings of a bifrocated sort and pile

Hankering still for his suttee and assorted pets and potted plants. Our final contestant for the dog house boob. A besotten attorney, shoestring of much bung water. The rimey sludge pit sucker of shark tooth grind and pitted olive puice.

These grave to laud figures inhabit the close quarter of a single traveling zone. Rain and fog bequeath them the gnarled mien of a heretical judgment on their questionable fate. If these streets, these alignments of foot tracks and cart wheels, now set to spin down to the idle of jailtime and worse.

Like three bums and their mitt. Catching air and catching hel too. Thoughts of the goddess. A dark muse this time, rye, macabre, gallows humoring. At its proof almost.

The dirger, misunderstood gets no quivel. The tears that issues forth salient and salty from the eyes of the maiden fall without consolation. The profligacy in the paunchy one would remit crows slovenly. And our little bookworm considers burning down the back forty like a vested ruse puckered at tacits and the impudence of gorillas slapping down their bananas for sufficiency.

Talk, there is some. Bad sauce, unrequited love, sour punch, hard knocks, and even close calls with the grave. Like a minute or two of the long, flat,, line,,,

Hum? What! What happened there? It was the notary who made the claim. I heard it takes something like an exorcist to get a body back from the grave. Yeah the devil doesn’t want to give you back! Well she said. I had been up the coast with my uncle Charlie. He showed me to his very own cask of rum. Something you have that much of can’t be poison!? Why? Oh you didn’t know. Not much no. Seems very traumatic to me. Going into the grave like that. People would think you went there to rob it. No! I want a buzz, a dream, an adventure in a night cap.

The omnibus stopped and the drive spoke with somebody. Unknown to the passengers in the pokey a gate had been opened and the bus was driven inside.