Florence followed the canal, stopping every few to either foot a hispid seed pod into the drink or crush it under a passioned stomp, with the densely doed ones and their uncrushable innards destined for bobbing as buoys whilst the spare-haired [covering orbs plumply aired] popped pleasances into her ear, tunneling titillating tones to top’s traipsing temperament. ; )

For a desert-trekking shoe-tie

Who wants not to so dryly die,

Backpacking like a bactrian

Will preclude life as carrion

As long as steps trade place with rest

When sunny’s day sets in the west

And eyes searching for oasis

Are not tricked by blue hue’s stasis—

Letting each ‘sea-lea’ spot them first

‘Fore hump jumps in to nurse head’s thirst. ; )

Knowing which are for milk and which are for meat—

That sure would have been a propaedeutic treat

To the second-hand farmer with pail in hand

Greeting cows utterly laid upon the land

Whilst Oreo-chromatics around the bend

Were driven towards a rather grisly end. ; )

Time is open

To clearing space

For minimalism’s

Max effect:

Thymos will, then,

Cut despair, grace

Entering liminal

Flat erect. ; )

Whilst prodigiously playing Beethoven’s fifth,

Spectral reality emerged from hid myth,

Sending frazzles of fear falling down spine’s pith

And angst biting each nail into eolith—

Until poltergeisted pianist did smith

‘Symphony For Ghostbusting In C’ forthwith. ; )