from opera to apropos

more C-flat than gluttonous lungs,
these violins are autonomous now:
after breakfast Ceylon with broken scones,
the dunes languor monotonously.

total suffocation is to blame,
a quandary of the hirsute son.
Jesus, this soup du jour is ancient,
its slurping has no measures.

we took a mentally half-strung vase
and vented its misshapen flutings,
preparing it for export:
decay, deluge, parasols for monkeys.