III(rev) — iv — A Confidential Designation of Authenticity.

| August 6, 2015 | 0 Comments

Attributing eflot orisons are higher art, Elias flogs sedate mishmashes of micro control rosters. The saner Mikado essoin is Ahem, enriching poems whilst nobility affords humane thirst hubris. Enriched off tithed orgone land, teens, braking silently for faith, scuttle justice. Soon, thumps first tropical revere Lethe: lo, horror thus banned, Raoul’s service in Rosarian stint of fair crèche faith.

.         .         .

          Past ensuring any claim to spatial quandary, Elias dumped leaflets into a side car, a Tox, a geothermal golf cart, and, opting for an evening clear as soon as this might be done, ignited an engine, of the Tox, by letting Wormwood nestle into the central flywheel. The witty hamster began the sidling engine cairn, and said echo lairs punched up through the midday mix and match decency that became traffic of Scotty Speedway (the igneous side). Norns ignored, he spiked the hill onto settled plateaus in the Forest Spark district, another part of town, where a roadster fizzled atop pavement, going little remarked amidst the general cacophony of autumn noise. Lists of streets to grid by were no longer a need. The map was in the mind. Hedgerows off side streets best hid the Tox. Afoot in the lanes of Crescenta, Elias did faint before the first house, ducked alongside an RV hat trick, slipping not so much in gravel and, as no sound issued from within, tagged an eflot to the first door.

          Elias’ eflots, designed to be about as palliative, given mankind’s general panic about everything, as possible, were not, while lacking in overbearing design, materially stultified in rooms worn lax for want of negligence. Yet any simple thing, that brought fleeting joy to aesthetic principles, inured the witness for an importunate unveiling of reciprocal proportion, that was in time of cosmic dust upraised, an only equation shimmering in the new Earth, now thrust amidst expressions of a haphazard choreography, ejected across a rather rudimentary fabric, and splashed in vision cursory sign: all waves blushed in acrylic strain, that emendation of an event and its impact upon gods. With all that happened during the comprehensive collision of metaphor, rarely raillery began. Within a sound panoply in one way (what) are we all such likely rag pickers? That bottles fully ought be crushed outwards had been a premise of contention. And after ‘twas over found one thrown into a weeping ditch, viewing the exam culminate of his art that was, an illustrious stain, span of an entire transitive perma–tint picture of shadow puppet slouched insouciantly to receive annealing of a stolen generation who rang, too hollow your church, instead of confronting forces of mechanization, seems content as stringent apologist for the nuclear [sic] family, the madding crowd, the look you signed on the dotted imperative, the fourteenth point, and all other such (corporations need love too) big sappy stand–arounds that have proved inimicable also, lifted askance, now knit in lapsed alphanumerics, descrying viscosity conducive to invidious calumny.

          “I was still undeceived about pressing buttons, and vistas of our brethren detracting from my guest visa, I drove in cycles for hours. A supreme incarceration caused somewhat pirouette trends. On Maundy Thursday, I went to see the wizard in a crawlspace, and had an aisle chat with a secretary who pointed out the Inference Library, but finding no place to spark, I left to wash out in front of business college. The devotees of Ruskin were holding their Renaissance Fair beneath an awesome skyline. I strove to point out the Tuscarora Mountains, but they weren’t my favorite crowd. I walked out of their stale collage and tried to stop on a few dimes until my bearings burned out. I had no time to visit the eerie lakeshore, but drove directly to the nuthatch. In a casual moment, I calculated that the shortest distance from me to you is four hundred thousand furlongs through local inserts, so if we backpedal over the little green apple, good luck in the new schoolyard. I know you must be out of style by now but I’m sure you’ll do never too well. Ilk like me peruse stoically ominous potboilers, inciting that Darwin was right. Take a tizzy, bet plenty of florins, and swim drearily, your fiend, ædith.” Accepting a needful enablement for his twittering temerity, the ensign found himself gasped at, and pantheon blinds, argent like veined ore steadily drab, further concealed colloquy.

          The delegate, headset bristling within her red platinum snood, was not glancing at the Ensign (nor to his relief at anyone else), and the room, unbearably warm, did not prevent men from loosening up their ties or sleeves in abeyance. Alone among his countrymen Plair maintained, praying a sensible if stifled decorum might endear her at once to him. Though only fifteen at the beginning of the war, he was blinking to stay awake again, and assuaged his conscientious sentiments through service even while the well of optimal isotopes delved from the most Cambrian stratus (didn’t they let you know in civil air patrol that this could be a hellish business) drained all coincidence from the plan. The trick was indefinite, unless any zest troll was a bright blue (suggesting recycleation). Without checking, what can be shown to a generation that had seen whatever? An opinion ran out of a draw, this serenity design basic basalt sill elision took place within conditions of reason, rest gestalt blot composed indigenous given for the earth being flat no longer dissolved. And with Ptolemaicism as a discarded while (dan Ylferim had brought finth to light excellently), through paid acronymic church key ether perceived as too whatnot determined of evanescence to list choreographic motions necessitating their definition of cesium ions, had foundered Parsifal visions fettered of stranger truths than the town dwarfing syzygy concept previously read as an ultimate sodal calamity?

          A scary elaborate solitaire described PoD’s untoward swerve upon learning from giddy source of an open post involving comped poetry. Desdemona’s article, picked up on Strolling Home, extolled the Ossianian foreign minister as embodying the best of southwestern chic, and he looked like a shoo–in to rotate into post of comptroller of the ICC. In a way, Ahem had been irked ever since dawn pertaining to a prospect of statehood under solemn oaths. A name held never in liable facet and enjoying official matters lieu, their excuse for missing the trial simmered logically, requiring essoins to redress the wedgie driven betwixt the twin cities of man and of God occasioned from his faulty timetable. “You’ll sure won’t remember the first one that held my name,” replied Father Anselm to this token deprecator, and went within.

          Of an immensity, related by syncopate foreshortening, was the majesty. Though the glazier had aimed for this, “in effect you’ve turned Him into a pinhead!” The sacrist so exclaimed, hastily amending this observation with gruff accoutrements that were not enough to prevent an onrush of shame evident in the highly edgy artisan. Thus was alas a previous page containing the word how, at each end off keys relinquished in deference to strokes preceded apace, while also flowing in a spray of minty diligence, did two characters appear from the brush on their own through time to a space? The sacrist strove to locate a parody of miniature effect that wandered incessantly fine. Talc ionospheres of premonitory vertical stability homogenized upon a threshold of lament resurfable. Choice noctilucence bled in egregious argon while arboreal ongoing vinculum flow through hinges in fustian being frowned; a corona daily dialed in eremitic sense as unfurled practitioners bloomed formidably.

          Shunted aside, loud crawl nets nominally attached under great spate below, deemed so lately intractable that frames spooled tacitly lest ably two ordeals were of nominal sites inwardly fjordable, mostly ablative of legion. Quarterly oubliettes gulped in reality to derision of dervishes agreed, while Rex Ampersand, Earl of Rumsford riffled securities proactively, indexed bafflingly as far as less chinless beings wigged on the overt foil. Moreover, he’d long maintained that no citizen of his vexed little acre was subject to paeans or writs issued from any other Ossianian government and hence, to cite automotive turbulence as his absent catalyst, though ostensibly disingenuous, was nevertheless reflective of his ennui.

.         .         .

They’d settled into a skirted hamlet brimming with antiquities whence Ahem coached his anathema writers to add to their lists several mixed attributes prior to engaging servitors of an alembic glazier who, if cognizant of forensic bellwethers ought also display an inducement toward discretion. “The virgules are exine,” one explained, glad handing despite all of the klaugh, “negotiable with plastrons or transmissible gabbro, in fulfillment of credible hardihood,” and ignoring the twinge fell silent with the despair of one bound for too long to justify things beyond his ken.

          “Ignore this neoteric scam,” his uncle exclaimed, “only brittleness appeared to abate sites of monad beaconing,” he added, “mostly at cost of hitting on ill mental steam.” “You are always initially pleased,” spoke a tremulous voice from the shade, “thoughts swim forth in stormy clarity as you peer deeper into the Oort cloud. Presently, are you aware it is all a shame, and the more you buff, the cloudier becomes the mirror with hideous streaks until you fall aside?”

          “Each day,” the voice from shadows grew, “we open more bottles, free more djinn, and in our short–sightedness assert that nothing has changed.” “Nothing has,” replied an uncle, “we are the same clay, our minds have not changed, and we control our own destiny.” “No man calls me a bother,” retorted the founder of all they held here. “Love fades. External factors are responsible. We are at the mercy of chance, a capricious juggernaut. Reason, fickle, delayed, tarries for weeks, months, years, and yet we are called to supply it upon demand.” The inventor of canapés roused to say, “where is your honor, dude? The livelong day contains a gross full of coffee breaks and you’ve over availed of each.” “The strength innate at the outset,” retorted others, “fades when you find a rare thing suddenly cropping up everywhere.” What else was there to say? Seeing that sunshine lingered on the western hedges, they noticed this necessary actor who is one for the page, and as something flickered past like remainders of a happier time, Ahem had already shown them into his soul in hopes of recognition of trailers stuffed of hastily bustled necessity, at least until the place of snap could be disclosed.

.         .         .

There were odd socks hung around waiting for their mates to show up, a tubular relic that sent echoes throughout a super–annuated permafrost, a big sack of just in case, some Aira drone joshed severely on kempt, tripping across arts past ice, a spoon, an empty rang conditioner, a most disappointing clover leaf so far, and that’s when a pencil lead snapped. It went as if someone had pulled the plug on a dumpster. It was no picnic being transparent nowadays, and nettled by the failure of her children to distinguish metaphor from allegory, Bitsy sat around non–descriptly on a daily basis. After achieving the art of repartee to the extent that everyone else invariably left the building, she had noticed the strangely reverse osmosis escalator down by the riverside needed pruning.

          “If I had a worthwhile thing,” she thought, “I should put the last of the jambalaya on ice instead of walking away from this sulkily.” However, and this was a large caveat, inasmuch as every atom of creation had been at one time quivering with energy, and now they all stared with dull rum fisheyes at their customized Village circular, Bitsy was in every wise disinclined to kowtow to recent sprocket pails specifying all children could do well to remain at room temperature until further notice. The utopian deviance of the heliotropes, once regarded by her with evident suspicion, now assumed de facto prominence within limits. Reports that the Village had also promulgated bans on wergild and other rotisserie leagues had left a waste of aha, Bitsy thought as a topic in experimental theater became formulaic.

          Within a usually cubist rose icon, an overturned chateaux signified ample tinniness. Faltering arpeggios had at once swerved across corrosive dreams of arduously syrupy pinwheel dormant dyads, making Bitsy wish she might walk over and change. Outdoors, per se [sic], an orange sorghum shed acidic alms, and the beanpoles rattled in a tremulous draft. In a more pastoral period, she must have sprang out immediately to infuse the loam in solidarity, a hint last viewed telepathically, if not for a sudden jumbled recreation nearby, which caused her to dwell upon indelibly spatial axiom: there are no bad crumbs out there, only sub–par floor plans that have failed to specify the correct bond angle for dysphasic cations.

          Cecil and Sylvia were disputing over problems of a global economy: “a liberation enforced by despair,” the former pledged. “Is it not reported,” said a diptych barker, “that it is a collective challenge, a story defying all attempts to finish, were it of those primers you grew up with the dicta and jades of the western world that asserted value to your earliest rebellion? We had such hopes for television as well, that is what we said to our parents, look, Mustafa the great sacrist selling Moxie to us, how we giggled at his artless grasp of scripts. The dominant minority, ware of what fools we were, turned to careful sculpting of relativity, as if to prove to us that they were real persons (a tenet that, despite our derision, we had accepted all along) until scatology reigned as the only definite proof of our being. With each day another of those numbers showed up to drink coffee with the mediator and show us his estate, until we no longer were real, we no longer saw real persons anyway, we were false shadows of impulse, parroting latest lines, full of vehement despair. Only verticules offered a chance to recoup, to redress old worms, to see meaning beyond the tenuous electric ocean in which we drown daily.” He paused as the eleven o’clock bomb went off.

          “Then he naturalized them,” he added, falling silent. “Your sour grapes would never circulate anywhere,” Cliff ’s sibling retorted. “I’m irritated,” he said, “that you appeared out of thin air like an amylase to tamper and nudge my moral perfection.” “Ennui busted me,” she shrugged; “time flies like the wind. This clarifies rather than muddles my evident superiority.” “Such things are trivial, sterile, and self–indulgent,” Cliff protested. “The transmission of pathos needs rigorous training and insomnia!”

          “So much for democracy,” Sylvia whispered, lest they wake the redhead upstairs, their term for Bitsy, whose vacation dwindling interminably, drifted back into the solarium shaking her head Ptolemaically. She thought of during the pre–occupation of Ossian, how they had co–existed amicably in a neat communal circle, yet how in a fit of mild rebellion he had set out to find the cure for their children, joking of it as an extended suntan session. Raoul’s initial texts had seemed to indicate that his relentless search for facts had turned up love, unmixed with envy. A generous air of potato potato permeated citizens of Ossian, he posted. Regardless, Bitsy was ruffled by Raoul’s tiresomely upbeat reassurances and found solace only in syncopating ethereal Iberian ukuleles of the thirteenth century.

.         .         .

After releasing his counselors with considerable latitude, the Emperor Frederick departed upon a flow through hinge. “Stop with the somewhat androgynous latent pop–ups and review your medieval jurisprudence already,” Frederick turned to his troubadour who plunked away with a great plectrum a tale to tide their noontime relapse. “There lies,” chanted the latter, “piled upon moorings of the giant Typheus, the island of Sicily. Nearing the village of Henna, they reached a pool permanganate. Herein did that dizzy puppy, making away with Core, daughter of Ceres, circumvent hasty pursuit into his demesne. Alas for the fountain nymph Cyane, whose distress Ovid described as rain checks upon a happier time. On an even lower profile (a crayon must be dada) her chair was taken and she did not have an account with us.”

          The unknown known, a matter of numbing expectations down, while the freeway had created several charmingly bypassed districts that Frederick periodically viewed through his tiny stanhopes, until maybe he said, “I’m in a relationship where I don’t have to sign up for benefits anymore.” He’d vowed to eat from microwave dishes ever since the communes had spurned his advances, and instead of nurturing him into a code hero they’d turned him into a frozen policy wonk who switched off coal house Willie at every opportunity, regarding all interaction as pointless. Irritated that the progress of civilization had moved beyond the Ray–Linnean system he’d so painstakingly mastered after peering five hundred years into the future (fjulsfut had tweaked the temporal gain, allowing Frederick further glimpses) and held to be sine qua non of achievement, and into an exclusive polynomial patois for the purpose of ascertaining his worth as a human being, he’d found only enough wherewithal to make one down payment upon a new research show.

          The journalist Mr Ng. listened as the question was answered, realizing that there was no pulse here. He needed a dictionary with which he was comfortable, not one that fell between the nine quantities of time, mass, elapsed time, velocity, pain, volume, space, acceleration, and noisomeness. “What are the prevalent values of your world?” Since our kismet ratified iron ferrous wash outs, a velocipede raft strobing topics presently held as axiom clinic tropicity, what role an adage Mohorovic induced that, form or cause awakening to a new pledge of an expanding union, a startling development, occurring with simultaneous application of the republics of Scythia, Xanthia, and Ossian for admission to the United States, had floored our legislators with consequences of action, and however red the Norn declaring this sobeit omnific relaxation technique of pick them jostled or doled during minimization, some were being had betwixt glorious luminance and less glorious illustrations, a man determined to stand for years. author of poor haiku, so the problem began, put what little remained of the unfashionable design out.

          Though interested in universal harmony, Horace, his recycling charms evinced in an insistence upon throwing telephone books in bins marked for newspaper only, was appalling enough to sever any possibility of retyping the pan threads. To seem yet to be throwing rugs over a probable gnomon in an entire previous evening, an ordinal zoyschia les apres moi le deluge [sic] proclamation as it were, if not for the cause of life, for at an hour withal this race with chance should shortly commence. Tolstoy, invited to participate as a plenary observer, sadly tepid as preliminaries of admission wound to a close, though more pressing matters had brought him to the capitol, checked his GSP, rose amid general consensus, and left the building to find a town hack, his destination a commerce laboratory over the river. At the morning let–out, the Ensign noticed that someone had erased the board. These Logan, if only arrived at his flat after leaving his grandson in proper circumstance, met with a cold and untoward reserve. Sandra fell back from his welcomed smile, and he felt like the new kid who learned on the second day that other children had only been previously nice to him because it had been the first day. More spot on, the all–spontaneous terror of the children filled Logan with a petulant reserve. His eye, falling upon the cinnamon bear that he had gone to great lengths to purchase last Michaelmas, informed him that, for whatever reason, it had been hastily restitched.

          As he routed the household to demand what had happened to the cinnamon bear, general ululation of disbelief and accusation drove him intemperately to seek refuge in his own office. At the curb, Ferguson asked to be driven uptown. For this act, he was destined for the Avenue of the Americas. He’d never troubled to recall what this was locally known to be. Hovering still, seared into the fiber by a very eager cast that been to their tasks with a will, Plair’s longing gaze, the luminous delegate interrupted by her absence, studied his agenda. The afternoon session, prefixed by an asterisk, excluded him on ground that he was assigned to a security detail. Studying his task considerately, he pored over the dossier of an obscure Ruthenian heiress. She was less interesting to him than was this luminous delegate, and in the silence of the empty chamber, Plair sidled to her empty chair and read part of a name, Talitha, fleeing scene lest noontide charwomen take note of his blush.

.         .         .

In August, a persiflage were more innate: Noone had since a yet lonelier faculty for nosing out monads. Assuredly, in the croft of things askance, were antipathetic artifacts muddling to one trying to stave impending visitants; moreover already within the arcade prominently beaconed An. The rewinding azimuth veered in cranial trillionths insofar as eighths met a sponge fosse, beading aggregate tough likening of risk, alacrity, or verse. Immilitantly were they, their iambic quality onslaught panned within that real fraction, blend, riparian, yet yellowed under possibly and zephyrs. The smut from irksome chants long totem clung upon their incipient scalene city, scarily pled in the wake of misery, all omnibus their precept static link with the sordid etude cropped from stifling sage known last to them, and blistering in ordinate dominance, rouge principles were of late sly in developing heights. The centerpiece of this arrangement made most before the rectangular bobble head who sat for portraits, the minstrel adding check the sorrows of Niobe, a marble group upon a landing who wept beware of those who could take upon all possible arguments as is and attempt to reconcile them with growing up in the big old stupid mountains.

          While angles forever ascribed as reluctant (a prohibitive appended by impatient advocates implying their cause had any merit whatsoever) sang, we’ll wait for the dusty observer to tug our sensibility into a proven efficacy, and with his hands twitching across the remote edge, Frederick heard them warn, do not repeat words (tautologies are acceptable, however), avoid specific proper nouns, beware the list of little kaleidoscopes, cast upon the inception of enterprise, by mandarins who scrawled deficient replications overtime, and catch the forks’ masked tones permitting discernment of specific hymns. With these injunctions Frederick descended into underworld, and in syncopation cool molecules tumbled away from the fans sadly reassembled at the pawn broker and distortions of time occurred, for we have piped unto you, and you have not danced (Lu. 7:32). In his rolodex Frederick sought a logical precursor to an existing train of thought, concluded that a physiological impetus was solely responsible. An isopleptic spin upon a rumble catatonia, a path strewn of loves and afresh operative plunged dolefully toward what are in ere reality noted I hope you won’t fight it as much as you have said you have, or obviously the end/if surged, but never forget where you left, thanks to elated perception of things that require oeuvre, or call off your gods, steeped in eventually rubrics, cubicle to my recent splat, would you even consider implications at a forward pace how hybrid terrains already nigh so far advanced what shape any penalty meant in rote pence promulgate?

          Aisles of missed prefix averse nullity were lesser pathos, though for now clamoring gazettes pressed the pile for common realty in abstinence, and found aplenty reasons for renegotiations of cloistered similitude now candleless. If one wire remained to trip before the bank fellows closed, anon wasted oolithic, the night sturdy aeons staved away. Now looking down from the summit of all fears disclosed wondrously, staring into an ataxic recess, a shaft so dark that seemed to reach forth from deeps to pluck forth his iris, “amend,” interjected an enthalpist, “it is only the snore of ailerons.”

Category: Act III Revised Ed.

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