Thursday, October 7, 2010

bits end...

The tour raspy had a throat in check and several left astounding. It'd been a while on the tappy tip, and with a few points to note perhaps, all said it was alkaline. Where the throat went, so did the sheets of bacon and roads of ploys to scenic the styrene and poly-able. I'd cashed the gable with Mike's hand on the wheel while the other guys lollied in the back. Bunch a' dusty roads ahead, behind, and mops lacking that critical ingredient: moisture. In check too, was our agent--- this backwoods sort who shunned sheep and too much vitamin D. Too many would find their wires to him, a formidable walking jabber of pony express and voltage canals, lingering like a ruin or an emptied harlot's tape, subtle to drip holes, wary of the barking roles at his anklets: deep mustering a cough for esophageal coins and clothes (in autumn red burgundy) still tro-lo-lo'ing off an internet camphor call clearings, bloodied hangnails, dangling cubistic or bruitisme or sallow inky, like Redon's dark spiders-- looking like first they'd been splattered with careless glissando when having to decided to grow legs. All the ink in the world couldn't issue the freely long. American dreamer taken to terrier sloth or bricks and a brisket worth its pie-eyes in foolish pyrite and igneous deposit could see to that. Entire hills seemed to slide away. Pie eaters, papers in slings, balls to the couture, and a table in the teeth, the trip would probably emanate for at least a day or two more; steadied while we pored through the ration barrels, aloof with context and hairs and calluses.

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