Apologies to Wallace Stevens.
One time, while surfing in the bluest ocean that ever evaporated into sky, I accidentally swallowed a sea slug.
Swirling dust in a desert of cupcake mix.
When flowers rained like diamonds, and distant strains of a pan flute grazed mist-soaked hilltops, a forlorn sheep bleated in the afternoon.
Three tigers prowl in a jungle of their own making.
As they argued over the nature of the soul, Picasso became enraged, and punched Matisse in the mouth. Matisse bled pure color.
Fiesta, a party. Fiesta, a car.
Burning with the fury of a thousand sunlamps.
[Original version starts here and ends here. Oh, and the tie is here.]