In these situations, deferring to the Ham of Avon sets a high bar; adaptation, etc. At least the bone of bark strikes bores, operations, sins, nods. Writer's bars strike verity, still, lengthily.

 

My publisher’s fjords are a problem.

 

Deformed outsiders’ sandwiches have sinned, tilled, signed, and given their smudged signature on a bark placard.

 

A protagonist, now we begin, we have a snake, meddling. O my dear bone, that I don't have, he says, on the barn of my life, yeah, I'm not a farm viper, I'm an outside snake and he, my love, met Svetlana at a jurt panted grunted over bread, some bottles of hard mead or meaning; Desultory or jet-lagged informants were at my den eating bread with bilious brie medicated to the point of being ill (in between clouds); phew if I understood English, I'd be Svetlana, medicine dug my bone, of determent the old Masters were never babies, scoring storks coming over on a Saturday, borscht between (this is some enema jet-lag-like shit) noon and some other time ticking toward canned bullshit, some white van billing lightly.

 

Panning deters hands folding for sad sacks overcast; Like for a trot at the end of the bog till then, far saints, writers fording the trot at noon vanish disappear distempered hidden fattened in the hovels; therefore the tangent mot juste-s itself, or the helper at some other point has injuries, medicated all she has to figure out is ham until the snake sings. Writers natter far for some phlegm for ham some endanger themselves; therefore, in my stead I send a wood snake, broken with ham, semantic tartar.

 

So, morning’s coming, the villa of the living contains J. Robert Lennon or my imaginary publisher or me. He fabricated this, veered and veered; he has Odin-like sated himself until the snake medicated this English; writers are begetters of harder bark. 

 

 

Michael Mungiello does not speak Norwegian.

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