I
[The ball of grand red liquid agent indifferent to interest tunes rose in natural laying out of drilled pieces. Such was space and time, in a special crack. Upon these stories told in distance patterns and resistance waves a boat was bet upon by playing on the scale and bounced. That verb was its. Those waves were grades of grey and green, classing themselves as I looked. But I wasn't only looking only there and then but speed was offered membership. The boat could sink and then what? Fresh deeds to forget. Viking ship, a dragon, as was present when we rented that movie1, rental being a way to name your addition. It was Kirk Douglas all right, and the sound that fjords make to intent rocking machinations or wet lips after a quaff. This could be the dirt, with even a part of Tony Curtis talking onto the field. Suddenly we fight a moment's worth, with English kings settled on those sorts of questions, which all looks nice in a botched sort of drama. Sudden to the change of pace, we might pass a few roods of Hastings Field, to consider how history grows its own. Aliens aren't everything we know. Much ignoring changes the sport. No document yet exists concerning this, that or the other thing. Not one. It's still fun.]
Nordic blond Fu Manchu, he was due for a change. Conquerors are always alien or it just wouldn't make sense. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith bears his own presumption of the set up to work his way thru. He will make of himself an Orientalist, to seek into the mind of yet another half of the same pumpkin Earth, not to say he is losing his gourd. By aged precedence Fu Manchu also branches into seeing how the pumpkin inheres in fulness, tho half the picture's missing. Yet another agent is that Frenchman, Emperor Bao Dai, the 3rd half of the same grapefruit, albeit a decorative cherry at the centre mark seems a lovely division from just plain. [You will see the clues with me.] What are you hissing about now, Dr? Always hissing, says Sir Denis. The sir indicates the colour of something, a grainy texture, and the sweat of the horses from the Charge of the Light Brigade, which Tennyson naturally copyrighted. [I'm reading this frame as straight as I can.]
Damn bleach burned my scalp, replied Dr Fu Manchu, with a continued hissing, as of thinking of balloons and the miracle involved in trapping gas within withal, to partake the exuberant chummy freshness of the expanded rubber thingie, and yet the damn thing leaks. You should have gotten the premium brand, remarked the Imperial Frenchman Bao Dai, and this pâté is superb [redolence of truffles and quark-laden anything scrumptious in this day of expecting some thing].
We will assume this goes on and on, as a typical instance, the spore of kings. Meanwhile, transience, the ocean gold beget by red sun light over the horizon in some striving that we define (sometimes) as our own. The Viking ship sees land, after a night in deep. Deep in the presence of anything lost or going. If death, then death. The night held onto stars or planets until finally, and death is not simple, the sun rose over all. The shore could be pierced by sight. Grand moment. Fierce Kirk Douglas and Ernie Borgnine—father or fater, and son or sun—now there is festival of great hearty fight! Eager in their sailing, and the needs within their socio-economic system by which of systematic looting while looking around hither and yon, even remarking upon the weather and sights, all will fill history books and heir tokens in Hollywood's exchange. Gone a-viking, back when the fjords melt in chiming tingle of snow from this world to the other end of different. Yet at this dawn, which started with this pink nuance claimed from the doldrum of grey matter, up untipping to the boil of red at sea edge, horizon wink, then further into splash in the eastern sky, with a pouring across the watery stretch, into dulled eyes but heck it's no remake but a new cinematic treat, and a sentence that could say it, this dawn stars a river.
A river mouth, and inland prey, no doubt, said Kirk Douglas to the father Ernie Borgnine. Not to forget glowering star bolt Tony Curtis the extra bastard in the drama circa 1959 or whenever movies of this ilk were in the way of being on. [No freshness dating exists for sequence]. Two brothers and one kingship, that's a tussle in claim like a picture piece of Vietnam. But actually, this is only Leif Erikson and so forth, varied murderers who were out of town for the nonce, collecting land as history, collating history with tale, and ironing out a few facets of trade and stationary tradition in the midst of rivers and their input. A river mouth back in the day invited a shark enough to kill a few and even eat them, which then come to us as a way of Pete Benchley telling a mink-lined 17.3 gazillion story. So you see, basically, in the tribal memory of going to bat, we have many ways of saying something and an equal number that can say nothing, as we choose.
Description gives us a clue as to where the describer has been.
Note the viking ship pushing up the Mannisquan River, fresh New Jersey enterprise, that's a toke of random informed wavelets in a physics test of water. Thru cribbage games worthy of fierce fighting, and tender boating mishaps by the weekend chardonnay, and even television reception graced by continual stalking of Yankees players when they perform royally-induced perception, this is a stun gun for an assertion. In these untied states, any thing can happen.
The blond queue dangles like halfhearted retirement funds. Even the lengthy strands of mustache and chin whiskers are blond to the point of bringing back that sunny surf of dread tunes outweighed by anything but banter. What was I thinking? hissed the envy of every fictional despot to troop thru the imagination of working leap of faith lives. [What would anyone try in thinking? I'm on board.].
A passive indictment sits between Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis. They will claim aspects of the history of the coming event, in which they will raid endless English castles with a logic quite spelled out in battering books or quiz tones. Royalty to them means special sales, a future of interest and a quiet day living at home by the voracious pool. This will not change when Fu Manchu arrives, blonder than the sun, with a bottle of chilled chardonnay. He has monkish intent in his eyes. He has interest that won't rest. He will stay on the patio, embarking on plans. The vikings will lose interest in a flash, race off to a gully of beer and theory while the theatre called Valhalla will await hem. Yet this isn't a trip thru every guess but a sad pang that won't heal. History turns a worm around.
Bao Dai, greenish and emperor, relaxes after a French accent. He entertains the history of rubber plantations, and guesses at the size of sharks. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith contributes a weird novel buttoned onto something about drugs in bullish Orient quest. Which vested drug works best? The clamour of idle warrants display new aspects. These two are a pair, but then every two is. They rationalize their piece of the action with a truculent portage thru those wellknown jungle ramparts. They will guess on and on. What is empire but it fills the trees with smoke?
Nordic blond Fu Manchu, he was due for a change. Conquerors are always alien or it just wouldn't make sense. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith bears his own presumption of the set up to work his way thru. He will make of himself an Orientalist, to seek into the mind of yet another half of the same pumpkin Earth, not to say he is losing his gourd. By aged precedence Fu Manchu also branches into seeing how the pumpkin inheres in fulness, tho half the picture's missing. Yet another agent is that Frenchman, Emperor Bao Dai, the 3rd half of the same grapefruit, albeit a decorative cherry at the centre mark seems a lovely division from just plain. [You will see the clues with me.] What are you hissing about now, Dr? Always hissing, says Sir Denis. The sir indicates the colour of something, a grainy texture, and the sweat of the horses from the Charge of the Light Brigade, which Tennyson naturally copyrighted. [I'm reading this frame as straight as I can.]
Damn bleach burned my scalp, replied Dr Fu Manchu, with a continued hissing, as of thinking of balloons and the miracle involved in trapping gas within withal, to partake the exuberant chummy freshness of the expanded rubber thingie, and yet the damn thing leaks. You should have gotten the premium brand, remarked the Imperial Frenchman Bao Dai, and this pâté is superb [redolence of truffles and quark-laden anything scrumptious in this day of expecting some thing].
We will assume this goes on and on, as a typical instance, the spore of kings. Meanwhile, transience, the ocean gold beget by red sun light over the horizon in some striving that we define (sometimes) as our own. The Viking ship sees land, after a night in deep. Deep in the presence of anything lost or going. If death, then death. The night held onto stars or planets until finally, and death is not simple, the sun rose over all. The shore could be pierced by sight. Grand moment. Fierce Kirk Douglas and Ernie Borgnine—father or fater, and son or sun—now there is festival of great hearty fight! Eager in their sailing, and the needs within their socio-economic system by which of systematic looting while looking around hither and yon, even remarking upon the weather and sights, all will fill history books and heir tokens in Hollywood's exchange. Gone a-viking, back when the fjords melt in chiming tingle of snow from this world to the other end of different. Yet at this dawn, which started with this pink nuance claimed from the doldrum of grey matter, up untipping to the boil of red at sea edge, horizon wink, then further into splash in the eastern sky, with a pouring across the watery stretch, into dulled eyes but heck it's no remake but a new cinematic treat, and a sentence that could say it, this dawn stars a river.
A river mouth, and inland prey, no doubt, said Kirk Douglas to the father Ernie Borgnine. Not to forget glowering star bolt Tony Curtis the extra bastard in the drama circa 1959 or whenever movies of this ilk were in the way of being on. [No freshness dating exists for sequence]. Two brothers and one kingship, that's a tussle in claim like a picture piece of Vietnam. But actually, this is only Leif Erikson and so forth, varied murderers who were out of town for the nonce, collecting land as history, collating history with tale, and ironing out a few facets of trade and stationary tradition in the midst of rivers and their input. A river mouth back in the day invited a shark enough to kill a few and even eat them, which then come to us as a way of Pete Benchley telling a mink-lined 17.3 gazillion story. So you see, basically, in the tribal memory of going to bat, we have many ways of saying something and an equal number that can say nothing, as we choose.
Description gives us a clue as to where the describer has been.
Note the viking ship pushing up the Mannisquan River, fresh New Jersey enterprise, that's a toke of random informed wavelets in a physics test of water. Thru cribbage games worthy of fierce fighting, and tender boating mishaps by the weekend chardonnay, and even television reception graced by continual stalking of Yankees players when they perform royally-induced perception, this is a stun gun for an assertion. In these untied states, any thing can happen.
The blond queue dangles like halfhearted retirement funds. Even the lengthy strands of mustache and chin whiskers are blond to the point of bringing back that sunny surf of dread tunes outweighed by anything but banter. What was I thinking? hissed the envy of every fictional despot to troop thru the imagination of working leap of faith lives. [What would anyone try in thinking? I'm on board.].
A passive indictment sits between Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis. They will claim aspects of the history of the coming event, in which they will raid endless English castles with a logic quite spelled out in battering books or quiz tones. Royalty to them means special sales, a future of interest and a quiet day living at home by the voracious pool. This will not change when Fu Manchu arrives, blonder than the sun, with a bottle of chilled chardonnay. He has monkish intent in his eyes. He has interest that won't rest. He will stay on the patio, embarking on plans. The vikings will lose interest in a flash, race off to a gully of beer and theory while the theatre called Valhalla will await hem. Yet this isn't a trip thru every guess but a sad pang that won't heal. History turns a worm around.
Bao Dai, greenish and emperor, relaxes after a French accent. He entertains the history of rubber plantations, and guesses at the size of sharks. Sir Denis Nayland-Smith contributes a weird novel buttoned onto something about drugs in bullish Orient quest. Which vested drug works best? The clamour of idle warrants display new aspects. These two are a pair, but then every two is. They rationalize their piece of the action with a truculent portage thru those wellknown jungle ramparts. They will guess on and on. What is empire but it fills the trees with smoke?
posted by Simple Theories @ 1:20 PM
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