Bleb and Periwinkle Blue

Thinking about the carnage that my thinking creates, a tinderbox of odds and tidbits, a sour acrid peapod chowder, a bouillabaisse with a tart aftertaste. I have a sore foot, feet, I have sore feet, two of them, feet, two foots. If I had a choice, which I seldom do, I’d choose periwinkle blue, bluer than the bluest blue sky, maybe bluer yet. Blah, blah blabber blah, blah and so it goes, so on and so forth until all blahs are blabbered to bleb (a small blister on the skin; a small bubble, e.g. in glass; bleb·b: see bleb). I once knew a girl with a periwinkle bleb on the tip of her chin, a warty bleb, a warty witches’ bleb, a witches’ warty bleb. Poor sod, not a periwinkle picot (a loop that forms a pattern with others, e.g. in lace; to embroider small loops on fabric; pi·cot·ed; pi·cot·ing; pi·cots) to tosspot into. Shake a cow and out comes a foment of methane and gall; such a naughty-naught, cows’ feces and saltlick saltlicked salt.