Sunday mornings often put me in the mood to watch Herzog's Nosferatu. Or a production of Parsifal. Something grey and solemnly romantic, anyway. It's certainly been grey around here lately and rainy, too, though I doubt it's been enough to make up for the drought. There's no drought of doubt. Or doubt of drought. Say that five times fast.
I went to the beach a few days ago to see if anything interesting had washed up as it sometimes does after a rain. But there was only a whole lot of kelp. It's funny how often it looks like pieces of rotting animal corpse.
Of course, silent and grey Sundays also remind me of Morrissey but I don't have the Morrissey song on my mind you might expect to-day but rather this one, which came to mind after seeing some of the latest of the frequently, obsessively prescribed social protocol published to the Internet these days:
Twitter Sonnet #750
Pixie stilts have sprinkled powder footsteps.
Competing streets inveigle lanes to walk.
Strident Strider cosplay ripostes the reps.
Broken bowls of noodles saunter and stalk.
Gregarious Gregson Wagners lose roads.
Highways skyrocket on deranged trading.
In electricity are Bob's abodes.
Cooper noodle space is unabiding.
Two itchy bourgeois bowling pins've scratched.
Inclines impeach ill gutter ball rallies.
Topiary ague stopped the cross hatched.
School bags toured bagel purse tallies.
Oblique homburg hors d'oeuvres hobble the head.
Never neglect nebbish nebula dread.
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