Thursday, July 7, 2011


"Definitively preposterously preposterous? Definitely?," she vacillated as he went about describing adjectives to an adverb-laden dilettantish malformed coquette enveloped in localized lamb-colored gravy spilt liquidly from the quavering blue-knuckled fingers of Bethesda's best cook turned writer's aid. The taste flecked spoon wavered like heat off a hot Arizona license plate.
Yet still, the moon rose haphazardly.
And yes-the night was as young as a newly blue whelped human tinwhistle screeching human caesarian section named, unbelievably....
Joe Emancipated Shmoe.
With a vitreous vitupurous toe.
hanging low.
Finis en Scarletta

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