//------------------------------// // VI - X // Story: Derpy Hooves Wake // by Monsieur Bleu //------------------------------// VI – X VI in the demandable seasons of mirth and pithy, les the sympathies and symphonies play to the rhythms of those who hath not forth yielded? CPE, I stand perplexed. You have only middling prospects if the fairies are to be trusted. You question the flutters? Only as necessary. Piff, pithy puff—you have made no headweight against the demos! Inverted and irrelevant—had all the winds of derpy leighed cased against them, only to find out that the shadows were not well past the precipice. Those shades fortwhetting! Intercasted bare not slothing the pillars of onyx. By my right and plough! Oh! Yet speak in treats and follies, fillies, frolics! I yield no such grace to the perpetudes of whorish, warish racketeers. Lo! Les moores make ill by the night, convince the rabble that salvation is worth a tithing. That all that they can do offer themselves as piqué picayune to the foaming— Lest all the frolicking in the world was left to uphold tried and dried lands that have been ever unencumbered by the whiplash of thine verisimilitudes! Oh and speck of speak and hold the breaths of the wingedones! As all the world goes down VII to those Grecian shores—aye frothing abluth. L’état et les étates—maker’s realm and frontier of the vespers colonnade, holding court in the deference of light and sound. And so my realm affront, what treats and kush do you which to hold upon account. Weighed then by a feather to judge the tarsiers as a better courier of their own affrontaitons—lament with me that then we can only extract so much sang from the stony birds! Not only to languish these ruffians, placards demand—caste into only what thine will! Make slave marche to the infernal whims of their own immemorial horn! O—et tu Lute! Not o’er dissent—Moorish heads and wayward hastenings of those desperate enough to counterfeit the Visigoths! Or make way to the stranded shores of Anjou-via-Trieste-et-Roma. Oh—purse the standards les they hoist aboard the ship marked by strands of mirth and shelter. And pledge the macros-micros-we: to thine affront for the habits of this and every earth-en-tyme peasant danced into death! Ditz to fear a copious—a conscript’s accosted play making marks on stones with brittle bread. Pause now and let the whirlers land fall twixt these two thralls. Inhale—exhale—hale to thee, tea time most appreciated VIII past the diamond foothills and openly into the storm. Vexed these potions of earwig and honey—Oïled tongues and quivered lips pursed a volley to the streams lay case to offer in parchment and silver. Fiddle, flutter, flow make this fizzer fissure from one side quaff the next! Dittle down past the offhand burn lest the sides inbound past to-fro the nexus, stitched up by the primson rose. A-bud, abloom, a-blossom, Absalom give the queen a rest. An oak hill founded once to be a softer resting place, land twain the sky and sea. From there, vaulted, cake and tea and treats—beset that this haste extinguished by the fogs of space. CPE crest her haunches to the perfumes of lilac and protosaccharine; Lulu dispelled a gaunt through flared vestibules. Incased in this whole allotted grimace—flix-a-flex—for what hold the power of the yearnings if not that of the core? Libations, libations, libations. As if all of Tartarus is vexed to heed the main? ‘Tis it no less the fools proxy? Yes, yes bitter life, I plead yes. Then on hoof—offend the vanguards of the long extinguished muses. Runts rumbling, ramping, romping about in time—cast away IX by the raptors judging rafters lest all the seeds dangle on the wind. Palatine, come, say to the sky sprits that the drinks they pour are less lofty then their phantasms. If only. Hold onto it then, casted asunder by the murmurs looking towards the hearth astray. What have only then if the bulls run roughshod over the hilly mounds that composite the plane? Fear cannot attest to it, masques and pips make her no boundaries with denoting beyond themselves. What dreary things then if only constrained by Chronos and elixir d’espirit; makeshift carnivals to the passing of the morn. No—out—out—! Let the flippancies accurse their own! Ignatius calling to the world, all the good fools happily joust against the field of storms, grace and redemption offered without account of cause or cost, accost to the womb of violet flaxseed, died in the purple. The carte of the monde azure, vert. The ideas left aside for a time—so what of those sous dispersed, either way if the cold come back with the winds, how shallow the nested fools belittle the cues make past their wicker marks. You Alaric, making peace in the squares with all the chaos and fluttery, futile, axed-to-grind against harsh rocks and rackets. If I were to denounce all envies X ceasing heedless against the shore, casting myself in the better graces of Helios. Therein lay the wisps and wishes, there to wisdom hold sway against our battened hatches. To carry this prefectory past the rex regis rho, hastily until the upside of the twilight spectre casts the appropriate shadow. Alabaster clouding made alluring in the greys—mists and vapor hovering elegantly, to opine the clauses of summer and fall, snows and flowers. The whole of the world whirling about in her aptitudes, until finding rest in a softened meadow. This is not the fundamental square—for what is if the birds are of alabaster, what virtues could they sue or sew long if they have not the will for wanting. Patience, patience in the face of confoundation, keep plucking away. Dispirited, yes, oh quaint frets locking about this piece of terra, but do not offer will to shame. She stood astride the window lattice, an old monastery, stone, roofless. There, still a-daze, still a-more, letting all the fuss and fritz dangle about. That she sees the seas rising; the Sees are rising a-la-carte. Only open to those who made you, still there, meadowlands, still walking through the fret and the hush and the bother. All made up