Friday, December 30, 2005

Winter 2005 in the New Hospitals, France.

The cheap toboggan slopes fuelled a rise in retail exhaustion
in December. Tagged as a foundry of physical limits,
our old Hospitals notched up a milky season. A torrential
deviation into the subsidence-free valleys. We managed
the appliqué of weekends and plotted the stations of mealtimes.
A business more than shrill romance, sheltered between
our imminent return to the tonic and the pork barrel
of meeting Susanne. It was time at a pinch: ironclad
in its own baste. A loft built on its unknown cachet, furnished
our first Sunday together. The redolent inventiveness
spawned thirteen positions that pooled to a short buy.
Susanne asked, "What's the ROI on my ass?" I felt
strapped to conjure a Christian Brother article:
that 'scullery delight never stops a clean pot'. Here
the logic gets a bit meshed. A sucked all-sorts clings
like a limpet to my sleeve, a sure sign of powder.
I missed her lathered Bonjour coming-to
on the sofa. A buggy of light air toasted our nutty
tinge and reduced the fruity sediment of growth.
We avoided the patrician backhander with a vision
caste well within the bell curve of its creamy incline:
the fret board cynosure of mulled-wine and disinfectant.

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