The headlong pace of the seasonal haute couture collections, which over the last decade have taken as text an inexhaustible, onrushing stream of inspirations: refugees, prisoners, Hasidic Jews, porn stars, heroin addicts, fighter pilots, the Amish, 1970's porn stars, amputees, the guerrillas of the Sierra Maestra, Catholic nuns, brownshirts, surgeons, Dickensian street urchins, fictional 1970's porn stars, and so forth.

i'm a fountain of blood
in the shape of a girl
you're the bird on the brim
hypnotized by the whirl

drink me—make me feel real
wet your beak in the stream
the game we're playing is life
love's a two way dream

leave me now—return tonight
tide will show you the way
if you forget my name
you will go astray
like a killer whale trapped in a bay

i'm a path of cinders
burning under your feet
you're the one who walks me
i'm your one way street

i'm a whisper in water
a secret for you to hear
you're the one who grows distant
when I beckon you near

i'm a tree that grows hearts
one for each that you take
you're the intruders hand
i'm the branch that you break

leave me now — return tonight
tide will show you the way
if you forget my name
you will go astray

like a killer whale trapped in a bay

Think of the sentences churned out by academics. Philosophy and Literature, a journal published by the Johns Hopkins University Press, runs an annual contest for the ugliest, most stylistically awful sentence to come out of scholarly books and articles. Winners include untameable sentences like this one, by Stephen T. Tyman in The Philosophy of Paul Ricouer:

With the last gasp of Romanticism, the quelling of its florid uprising against the vapid formalism of one strain of the Enlightenment, the dimming of its yearning for the imagined grandeur of the archaic, and the dashing of its too sanguine hopes for a revitalised, fulfilled humanity, the horror of its more lasting, more Gothic legacy has settled in, distributed and diffused enough, to be sure, that lugubriousness is recognisable only as languor, or as a certain sardonic laconicism disguising itself in a new sanctification of the destructive instincts, a new genius for displacing cultural reifications in the interminable shell game of the analysis of the human psyche, where nothing remains sacred.

That's not a stream of thought; it's a bunch of big words thrown into an Osterizer.