1. The Tuna’s Down for Sure, the Bathysphere Is Abed
If Ned surfs with unconventional forces, he could get near enough snits to sniff. I’ve been a bean who tossed aside oats because—wait, I’m okay. I dwell with my dwell kit, I do.
Revered docking at the hisser pad is no more enough. Hear ye! Sow your own care up your means, then nitpick sixty-two nods.
Sifting will go for footing my two ads. Dimly are you being ostracized. Harold’s dope he smokes, leaving seeds as intact orbs for tea. Eye music makes sexy eyes. I’ve been singing hard lyrics.
Do now your so servile verb. Fort Frampton took your grey set verb. The lyric masseuse napped, its cornea quelling by legal eyes a Taoist tater-tot.
An old hag tells us for two years, Yep, we ate seven eyes. It is sized to tear answers. I’m sent to tour the way here, Suzie. The snow poke warrior crony says, In each Gongaxi you’ll only have Sinai. I rip half hits. Jim covers us far and bare. Oh, to like tea, Leo, to be vain, Liddie. I ought to move your half-tie, tip you at your POV. Wait up. Damn it, damn you. Hug your tiger’s half millimeter. Cod can take the bee hurt, tie it to the food regarding—who? So we’d come by harm?
Tonight might see a serious draft, see ignition whipped at the nomad gull, and know what I wear. Half I eat new, and puff the Hasidic verb vectoring in forward flight.
He’s up a whore, ain’t it so? Illicit sin, he says. No, doofus, do it. I’m Irvin. I’m my sad lover Ivy. Why wait ninety-eight years to be no dear bike beneath the jeep top? Around nine, no node is snooping before Guantánamo. Achey osprey goes low fortifying for the bye bop eve. The night pub’s error terrorist and imminent Deco door pegs caulk the mob fight.
Enough rainbow nines and we’ll be quit of the ex-GI. I asked him, and Michael said you and the bonbon man go tottering low.
I’ll be with the Pinot aspirin aspirants aspiring aspiration.
Rate is a racket, Tieg. The peso rued low. Oft we’re turning out fate for teen war. Red pissed a Gulag, annoyed a sole big profiteer.
I am thirsty for life, snicker toking a king runt to seek a sea otter for the plate. The engineer gave a hint, said to flay more before he ate the day. Near him ate the usurer; your voice with our simple mead gear.
The tuna’s down for sure, and I sure am sore in my lip. Half beat, I say, Cain, oh cries he, cries Cain. He cries for three-fifty for Ruben.
Racked to be no beef, roast beef regarding one damn dollar serves enough. Hell, he’s abler all night. He ate the tea, and the new hosiery Eric stewed.
The Captain he’d kid, allowed he’d do the teeth net. Sir, every resourceful nutrient weakens the Gesellschaft. Forward fades some wit. You bet, man. Would you wait here? Trendy socks were detoxic.
You better be a pal. The bathysphere is abed. I—
Tell me, my uncle, you are…?
Big and lachrymose, your Holy Ghost, you are. I’d know it today, boy.
I shall be your oaf to return your five-creed shambling and grieving boudoir. So God says, SNUG DNA; however…
Ostrich severity.
2. Sex Lore’s Wrecked Knees
Comfy for this takeover, you’d pop her cap in a minute, vend your pomade on TV. We are whited while we retch; are like Power Hill’s aegis up one Leo.
Thrum the raft through fogs. Savvy envy finely imagined. Ron put a lucent lemon in his many merits farce.
Wit, he says, with eight quirky hexes, he. Off what pence pullet won he the oak to send mad Syl her tall fuck. She continues legally educating Wilde, swapping the Ku Klux silent woe.
Too far, sex lore’s wrecked knees are knowing the ages’ wry yogurt: Betty fought you till you faced Allah. The king emotes.
Our tit sham aviaries you won’t know. The jitney ditsy tiny mice are all I arm, Diablo.
Siltier Waterloo forgot—oh, ohh, the Automat he saw pitching woo. The nape foliate never cared a lot either, attempting new ways you never—
Our Rio Canitas denies its being hotter, or You ought to go deny women their lyre eye.
Hush. Hug.
Gator raw-rubbed the wick. Regulus quaffed vocalese, pitched jaded pregnant piss-ups to miss the turn.
He opted for hitting back your gay wee yo-yo meat. You eat us toy soldiers, this Bible hokum emblem. I dare you to drop it in.
Ebbing mire lessens your needs. Imagine veracity. I told our biotoxic canman, A mirror for your dobshit, and Deb signs pews nigh. Yet a fine moonwalker you are—a fool, a nit. Sing a set, dare more to wish none poorer. Equalize. I’ve been hiking. Go.
You see ill, you get right on guile, my low-lidded forget-me-not for any civil gland, my huff jag’s ebbtide. I booted down my rent wick, booted down my sequin rot a-betting I’m a sot.
Saturday did enshroud Nat, near as he took all now. Hugs for his foamy new book. Frog him as bears bilk Ross. Neck the marble nitwit ninny. Oh, did you go to Anthrax Glen? Pennsylvania stormtroopers hit the ipecac dubber on their way up your mess.
Your home tiff wagon don’t like it when each raccoon wrap-up you owe putties even in the tie jack row. Are three wrecked old bumps Mrs. Barbara’s daughters? Balls bearing California Kansans spy the odd pursuit bee.
Or Tiger Texans mine the soda Aetna sex to have enough young lies reaching Uppity Cay. At Sissy Trail Cap the old thorn elk said, Good for them. The best fits. We joined the usurpers, said again to buff my early tang and handsome hype.
So sure I am that you would understand. Go
tell it to yurt. Tell it to your
IOU. Yeah, we’ll probably hike down, forego their hit sin mat. You’ve got a big enough Zen cleft.
Memories affect
ah, each.
Morals do it to me, boy. Could you shed a nifty videotape, own Canyon Row? Row it till you’ve hid your ill
ah, it,
and
Eddie Kresky had a B.A.
Earn near us the rheostat. Eye the cage and see the CV come here, rowing poor tea bogs by in their whimsy skivvies.
The sneeze is in.
3. Hoisting the Onion Path Pit Pot for the Old Sieg Heil
Sore, Tad rubbed his russet cod in odd powder over my lord the artist.
Emptying bulk syrup for a doubled term, and sacks of nice jacks, Gidget, Uncle Humbert Humbert, Jr., bifurcated a fit fit for four-eyed links, a roaring frilly for an eye.
Vision envisions an otter to beg heavier metal for an ape such as myself.
Give me a lime, one iota icky enough to vacate her at the null mime door. Have a half-cut box kite raping a pony if the embroil pit’s suture aptly halves the Goya par at three.
One sick pithy girl already told him he goes for an uncle and he’s yucky. One old adage over that tea timbre is wise for how he doesn’t make for the fuck jar’s off-track debting. Just for cozening, work your eczema.
Retrieve a honeyed meow to eggs named quickly. Me, I owe Freddie all the blame of him your half an idiom to discern in me his box, then view the caught Cassius singing his hosannas.
Okay? Okay. Okayokayokayo. The weakened dumb downer slew a wedge.
Ay, you bet she went to me garlic, the gar licking the GI—it’s no BS. I paid my own brad off with a right eye.
If he owned a few of her like them, first Lee from Siam would read and take a pill to ache. Oh, Zebulon stands screaming with an arrow through his birthing gills. On TV three times daily George Regent goes into his nice sulk.
Forebear the son of a bitch. Sit up to vote. I feed her her ass to kiss her eye, and if it’s bad, it’s stiffed. Ow! He walks near Eden to be near God. The girls don’t know any British Thermal Units. Vicki hits her hog hard by.
He’d take February if it was she we heard. True larvae save the boy’s pin disguise. Old MacNight says Lee is hot, Lee lines if the winery twisted your high kiss and hug.
Burnt-down fiefs your royal will will not reprove of him, my Mekong memsahib. Being near enough to dry racoons with palmer sex, you’ve ticked off one sepsis obscenity. You will against the wronging agony gore an East End dad. Evict the stop sign. It’s tough again and always.
His crow fries economy and elopes. Able, he called to her, Listen are you over the basted New Deal Pope? You named never wheat, blamed the eggs you… you… you… We saw you egg your Barbara. She is said to dive on your dog.
Kooks. Their misty hobs did mount Venus and drive into the aquifer. Deer wax on the outer tile, I saw it. The bare store reveals you’ve been in hock, baby, hoisting the onion path pit pot for the old Sieg Heil.
It will be a helix helper to make the timing trapper eat and add no hate. Not lovely, the brimming puppy pole lay deep or high on life. Way to go. Going away, they had a good time, ready to see the toupee fun with the old saluting allergy.
Key the sex to earls, two beans and one certified nursing associate on Derby Week. Barrels of tuna go high, ignite the odd saw. It’s the wilt cats who are ever coaxial, who can warp my justice in a normal plutocracy. Remain open, hearken to the verb.
Pinup bibs are crashing to diverse ends. Humbert had an Arab mummer to light us up, loiter with the lout. Aw, Mike, it’s a hurting thing to name the dog that dog.
4. Her Oats, Her Knots, Her Neighs and Sighs
Even then they fought serenity. Art’s little enough to be when I’m numb with you. He heckled her in sight of wrapping a demure immunity to hide her peel in one egregious hogger’s wax pea. Yore of beeves’ toe, she hoped for wetter meat. I sinned in serving it.
A new dread of nuevo tenderloin had the sad White Hun backed up against his fear of gripping foxy sweet beau dew. It would never egg a mega-matinee mom to do his bitumen emir in awning; namely, for one yam tesserated to be normal never doubts decades enough of arrow magic in winning the hewer’s cry and command.
To add no more, for my sails I might set in a sunny pizzaz, or in a debtor’s hovel my rudely shy riposte. Do you ever want convincing? An apathetic hencoop browser you decked in awe. No more than deck duty exhilarates auxiliary Canadian dollars to shout their glee full sixty-one times.
Timid at sights of sagging, I bade my Ida good night, earnest for her hate. She ate eight or nine out at their knees, sowing her oat knots now. For the Devil her oats, her knots, her neighs and sighs and refusals. She sections her sips into five foolish kin on back of a half-caught volley. See her eye so dry. The null woman had us doing light, staying stiff in pursuing you and him.
Icy where the nubby wren eyed the heron in my nickel, the very hog name itself sells the wishes I wish I heard.
You, sunny clerk! Look her up while I lambda ma at my brew’s kick-out. The empty nine, the back, is now the liar. The governor rides at her wedded bliss, unaware of the nota bene to fudge a totally tyro witch. We bow, we eat nine lilacs to jettison sickness in alkali skies. Jets and blessed hips half-mirror the giver’s rough and sloppy jailhouse kiss. The jets emit their inward and sometimes so tame cousin.
Timing goes and echoes a sign, then cosine. Get Mike chilled. We have the rolling ocean zeroed when the squad machine gun emits hot rounds of fire, a percentage nixed by dismissal minus luck. This equals your life, your damned blaspheming denial jive.
The renter rents her war, charges into megawatts waiting thirstily for powered lines certain to certify Junior suitable for ohms.
In Italy he was mousy hot for one sexy creep, the creeper creeping across the full volley girl lying catercorner by the door. Our catechism you’d pin to do. We’re nothing if not faithful. Tea keeps a fillip’s basin tidy; tires leak out of their fossil rut’s Nevada. The bathrooms are even. You can tie any air you hear lowing down sauce row with the adenoidal building of an elfin deer—I warn you, that is, to pare now or never.
None will rule now atop the diminishing wittier seventh made to kiss a third eye. Our city, too ill, fumbles not the lacy vows of vocation, icy and half-annoyed at such a silly boy professor.
Your kid is great, has a dire goat tied along the way we go to go over sights to see, don’t you guess? So gleefully, so winged the peppered pup. Cayenne? I suppose I am, sir.
He names the names he cries so thriftily for, a form he let lie pinned by lies. Tumbledown blue owls are succulent yet firm. That can’t be right. Nineteen new years ate the hemmed-in nameless ring, the tepid orb he got off of him and his alone.
His ilk are fey to assize a log. We’ll go see your uncle with your puff. Start walking tall out to the apse. A new idiot bears a google of tan hot-to-trots. Hop aboard us, it’s ever the year 99 of the old calendar. Tie the waifs to your woven sea, see them sink, cajole them with wringing masseur’s hands. Oh, we’ll bait nine hearses, stuff hogs with balsam wishing to win us a never-taken kill, shunning the shoving into the irresistible ever-soft and wet.
5. The Tiny Won Core of What’s Hard
The video transmission ties one onus on us. When I had cocks it was never a goodnight cat; it was the same old same, say any sick kittens.
Exceedingly he was always a weeper. Coxcombed robins never mixed the tiger soap in a high metal caddy. Hey, Emil! Sir, I wish more and more to hop a cur, hock a curmudgeon natty and new, hit the hit I owed him in your name when you were the ad hoc goalie to aim for.
Doesn’t he ask you? All I am surrounds the rim of his cave-in, slaying right where the wounds find you so tired and true. The intravenous run can mow the car too tall to see. He simmers today on his way to be. It’s as if sex exists in your city, sitting or lying or telling the truth, directing you to dare a hooded net killer to sin in new and anaclitic ways. He fought you right over the desert’s intact bridge. Are we willing to do so, to burn my revolt and cut my body? To see my abomination!
Smack you, and might tows a wagon more for a joker than for a trooper of storms.
I vote for pigs and size. We seek you taking your sour sucker suit, sawing rye eyes on well-dipping oils. A lot of five eye peeks make dishes, get abed and crawl under your inserted dot.
The warm enfolding can yield your way, giving way to his numb flock. That such eleemosynary itty bits go to the district attorney bites the overbite. Sallow and sorry, really, O survivor toe—cyber terrorists said, never will you frighten us with this. You will cook a fuck in vulva if given rule to rule us by. We are different. It is fed.
Are you too a given car, winning timely ennui? Everybody saw the winner’s woe, tasted poison skies under the error terror touchdown by paid guests. Your storming trooper den job has gone whore hog. She’s been vomiting, sir, forgetting her served and nighty-nightly victuals.
Dead bats fallen from a V-neck formation aren’t the nice hexer you saw first. Your fist is mine, you hide your jamming dies. Your axle cog, sir, is getting some of your kite’s oily yards. I buy a myopic biopic and resell spiffy gab of rear-ended peers. Go with the tiny won core of what’s hard.
Mug you we will, but we won’t wreck your motor vehicle. Cop, you be fair, the fairest one of the mall. Putt my sweet whatnots into the bagged eclair, officer, and always enter here. It’s out of lace, it’s your copy horse’s tightest verb. You give Jerry a kiss. And if you wait, the dauber man might tin your aching side with rats who die for meaty sex.
Limned, I rule the day of enabling their new and heinous turbid talk. As if I saw one near and dear to it.
For pickings, dig the vulcanized villain forbearing the felt thing I seek to clarify. Ghee, the tar’s deaf knob names her. It’s likely he’s a scissor bum, rank for enough bawling to wake the heir and rightly gauge the teaser’s ways ever slick and windy.
This four-foot rusted-out prison wall will wish him here, Doctor Ill. Ill, ill, a husband to offer five strung cash, he’s your acerbic kissing uncle. It’s what you mean by It. You’d be better to water hot the new deal, my lagging wife. Other equipment develops lying words, ruptured laws, ducklings ducking.
Tea beavers withal, when Sis is grown to top the guys, Tad tacks the eye joker, gruels the desire tie. I did hope the divine Ohio wind erupted over unalike roommates.
My great Greek growing powder, here’s a hot minor haunt: Sticks stuck stacked into your beefy horse. Teaser caught fire. Her tough blessing from on and on lags along the sagging verge.
6. What We Call the High, Good Fashion
There’s a rude body on that odd pig. Key the gum—our wandering’s come.
The best advice, M’sieur, is to see the fame road rear its rundown turner. And Miss Minnie Ann, last name unknown, hides in a cagey huff. For her to cry equals pity. No sweetie am I.
In the Ice Age the savage forbade breakfast. His zoot suit clearly had the acey ox to copulate in Saharan beds, whereas your puffy wick is what I’m going to take to God for the annual screwing, minus wiping coy the waves. The nude severed the twins—and ate my yearly maid! Eggs irradiated, no somnolent hams can move in such an adamant misery. Never pay a crazy. That is sew.
A knockout tide ebbs off Cuba. The tabloid eradicates wine to go fetch the job. In zero year the Republic of gall empties the time of your tears. Steals the cayenne jet tit. No lie. The Hun’s lucky licking baddie is a delicious loving sir.
I, I am old with heart. I am your never-scabbed runt. Dawn loves a late rate on the binoculared diva, deaf and dumb, plus seen darkly. The baker boy reproves and forgets his trio of dates at Tiffany’s: Supper, lunch, and breakfast down with him and you just yesterday.
Whip your log. Your towering dress is what we call the high, good fashion. Oh, Dot, goodnight aglow, and cause the artist’s bipolar downer to down what is in the salt. Oz bucks the rule of law. Stand him on his head, he’s such a touchy bad-ass. He looks to Sis, and to see if Sister Perusal encircles it with a rowdy Gouda, or with oil bins.
If enough two-fisted nets out of site so axe the ma rot ginning, then you’re fed right, sir. Share it. Make it binary. People the poor, as sayeth Ezekiel. We automatically defend it if it is dark. You are to give the snowflake up.
He hates yon dawn, she grows so big. He prefers his new take on her womanized bandannas. He gives it the way a Teddy-boy’s sugar mirth is cuffed in the vicarage, as a set of parts sickens the total mores. In care of the walrus, the nematode’s surcease is rude as a body’s.
Old Vermont, so many hundreds of years gone by, heard the ceasing identification racing the endowments to a jet-jinxed gag by January Four. For the roses’ verities, a dolorous mile is all mine own. There’s been a mix-up.
The wine for supper is well-mixed, it’s the user’s highwater Marx. Get the excess heartaches. You never cared, joy and woe, all the same where we were at and where our first reveries lingered seven long weeks. Lingerie were the duds of choice for hocking. No tee-off to make the evening run and pay the reggae love vibe taxes. The height of that was token enough.
A dye-hearing Olaf named Vicki Vulva forwarded your wet eye into his sins. Yet the tap on the tub we wed. Lou, what’s he up with, his heft and its wreck? You for Mary Jane.
The room roofer commissions the exchange of security in the sex I have. He roofed the tears of this gooey mug, then rutted an awkward ache in lieu of eyes or ears.
The thug I lay my tea on vomited nigh enough the near piss dragnet. No—I’m fine, rally.
Cockeyed words righted need us to hit our hot equals with gadding hours of night. You bent down. Your au pair asked why I prefer bus utterances systematically hurled slowly to my left. Well, there’s no sure answer to that. Few such adolescents are taking jade.
The pate has gone missing in action. Quiescent woman, that ray was eliminated. Triply diverse, to make even any of these old cries for three-to-five forward walks was never the view of the odd pig. Do the king, but if you were born on points of fact, eh, yeah, you’d act toward your area’s time in how hasty a right accord. The prescription sitter is the one to be.
Tie us down. So let it be. I’ve seen the dry nose beneath deep snowflakes. ‘Tis a paid pike cage tightener who seeks the ceremonial.
This is the shelving for reserving tea.
7. No Tares Agoggle at the Magog Ball
The eaves of his house, they set to sea, in case the eddy leaked some lights.
It’s no dog to be knighted by the touch of your amazing monsieur. The old say the nights are the rarest hours to see the still air born.
You’re related to sauce! You saucy thing! Our belief as to whether there was a gal in any chair or not—it would not—with more go, it will never light to be over tabs. If you see the very revery we see, it is one if by night and two if by day.
Your good lips pay the liar’s way. Why not beware the dog and the caving cave-in, killing two bats with one butt? The pain of each will wash a guy of his disreputable webs. Time was he had to hike just to open your access.
Rat and Delilah hog a hot, sexy kick-eater, with no telling to see how damned riled up the kid might be. The barking moon-lady I already saw. Rhea was her name.
Let us ignore their doping. Hop to be there and deny my jaw. My madness gone, I’m a half-wit with effluvia hissing hot.
Your weasel, so odoriferous to be, scoots to a train wreck tied at the Fresno depot. Earns a chit that size.
Walk the tee wharf in the olden days; rip tied the down-home hickory switch. Is it written that he who seeks the woven cock jams open the lamb door? The term log doesn’t show him—neither entering, nor exiting. Roll the log, now. Many are the glees writ low on joeys ahop, and like nasal noises, the decolletage will most likely kill us.
Seth gilled the jihad, quitting my defamation. That oaf makes over. He said his dad is up and at every overtime number. It would be no more than for hip art that already aids and abets the gabber at the mauve Fauve and useless cat. He may as well have contracted TB.
You heard the loud tale last evening, the women crying till kingdom come. Our numberless envy makes us ill. He will have your very crazy doom and be tagged across desire, because if vision is askew, home is there.
The Earl’s gift rests over. He could have written hate-you notes, tied socks around his hands to rarefy his circulation, and seeing the gap, be told it would do no more than ever affect the puff. It’s a hard damn callous web to hew that thirsty ore as omen.
As nothing is unsaid, you’ll be in Wyoming withal. But give it a light to ignite the ignorant bippy. The glittering gittern gearing anon, rows a new row of kelp volleys across the rustic cage.
Seeing now how many are nearer than any God unto thee, assuming he ever lands from off the eaves of his house, the amazing thing remaining was a jig. The hill tea’s sneaky foe never said to rig that Finnish boat.
Pray the delicate day slots the rotation. Kick it so it qualifies. His damp sustenance allows each sway, raw with inbred facsimiles, to be covering the ruins hurled, if twice or thrice daily the vegetables are revoked.
Throw out the three mirror echoes. Around town, regarding the guarded regards over any eaten oddity old or new, the question is or is not, Are you decently eating eight veal eyes?
The sickened Bay bear reads God’s bit. No tears in this dewy eye, no tares agoggle at the Magog ball. Test all the cold gin. No, Lee—not you. Ease them past the Knightsbridge attack, over the jerry-rigged mortis.
Nearer now to the tables of organizational gin wicks, we see the gnawer cupper.
On Adjutant’s Day, we table our organizational mice.
The otters and the bees and the one altogether set the marks on the elementary diva’s day. Oh, ho, I owe a marking sadness for the time the whiffy virtuoso mounted the lamer rip. Five delights helped him even up the eyes.
Obstinate drays and sows, hidden royal mice, they rig the happy hour to have a nastier air.
Fate is relative to how you connect the gumped sump to the last sun squid.
And this is Joseph: Say I, as I rode away on the recovering task, the demonstration pelt slung low, I go over the moor. So I say, let us be the remnant, and kiss us all for good sucks.
Here is the gut path, goodly paved, as if I were an osprey; as if I held the helpful salted cop.
Nullified nits are in the gulf for bass, swinging low, sweetly charred.
Right-o! All’s a-jammer! We rule to slit your roe. Can I ace a God fixed so that I am an islet’s aorta? He says it is imperfect. The heckle pie mob comes numb and wet over here.
I’ll be my kicks, my ill habit, none the wiser to tithe between the basal civic action and Mrs. Darker’s membrane ship. Her old wing managers are tied into their knotty coit, so cease your yo-yo behind your deaf wraps’ approving glans. Wash the dog. He’d be one out of corgi.
Don’t bother Lee. He’s an idiot in tiny ivy. The new equation will make knots out of Washington.
Indiana lit its knees. Anti-aircraft manure washed the hoe up the river. The Indiana river, off course and plunging heedlessly behind. In the whites of its algae there is the heart of you to be won.
The massif bivalves are needed, that someone shall treat the hurts I dry to qualify. Skinned of all danger, Sis is a whore. She sits on the sill, silly girl, casting her pearly-white swine into the sow’s-ears of naughty-so parks. The senior hay opens cold the hot. While here, rich dreary rooms follow the chatter around, whamming the sewer systems that guard our Utopia, wherein a percentage of our lip readers are daffy.
Perfect for a perfected world, it’s of no use in Oslo. Eke out the sipping brothers’ give; take wryly Gigi’s jig, rowing three oars. Wise men, here we come, three oars askant, cocked akimbo. Watch out, our lines are corked and twisted so.
Tetman Callis is a writer in Chicago. His short fiction has appeared in such publications as NOON, Best Microfiction 2019, Atticus Review, The Writing Disorder, Litro, Neon Literary, J Journal, and many others. He published the memoir High Street: Lawyers, Guns & Money in a Stoner’s New Mexico (2012, Outpost 19), and the children’s novel, Franny & Toby (2015, Silky Oak Press). He holds a degree in philosophy from the University of Texas at El Paso. He can be found online at https://www.tetmancallis.com/ and https://www.facebook.com/tetman.callis.