Things are rather flonk

Flonkishness abounds. There are many reasons. Copious like grains of sand. I was prappish, I was dunglish, but now all is frisia and butterscones, glashnoo and punabbly.

We wonder why it took so long for this vortex of meanderglow. But patience, like a feather grack, floats in far flung crevices.

Is there a brighter boygan? Is there a likelier mass of marzifleck—in oceans of under the riverbed? I know not.

Oh peppered pillows of pink, inside the undermount sink! Floating clockwise down a stainless steel drain, mixed up with macadamia and sprinkled by rain. Opium poppy powder pizza-pie piledrivers are often discussed, picked apart and proferred but in mid-July we sing instead the snappish chart toppers. Do I wheeze when sun rays are like lanterns of shiny hair? I don't think so, I just don't care.

As for blondie, she and me are in the middle of our history, no time to write, when we use up all the light admiring the light.

1 comment:

Wanderlust Scarlett said...

...oh waiter, I'll have what he's having, but in a smaller dish, thank you.

I had no idea that patience was hiding in far flung crevices.
No wonder I have none, I couldn't find it.

Good thing I am a spelunker from way back... I'm off to go find some now.

Scarlett & Viaggiatore