You have not yet reached the height of your depravity.
I should welcome flagellation by your ovoviviparous torso.
Sir, you have most exquisite breasts.
Its a far far better thing I do than to require that you find me a hammer and pummel me with all due diligence, but yet remember that it is I, your solicitor, who keeps you from aligning too much with the listerine salesman.
You are as orange as a congeleen afro curled around the bony edges of a silver spoon expressing its innermost desires for a lime-based detergent.
How lovely is your curdled priest!
Many sausages have known things before you had time to react.
How beautiful is the snowshine in your eyes, so directly current from the static in your brain.
Fighting for the liberty of the fruit tree tastes nothing like the glint of sagittarius rounding itself around your uvula. I know the time will soon arrive when we will see people manufactured in crates and seives of glass.
Your teeth are as soft as liquid stones poured from an aquamarine vase of solidifying flesh.
You move with the eloquence of a fiery wall of disintegrating fuselage.
Soon we will be together, writhing profitably on a bed of non-seasonal vegetables in equine bliss. With this vision I see no reason why the operation to remove a 2.2kg uneviscerated turket carcass from my pericardium should fail.
Thine right eye so plitherates that thine left eye doth graze upon it.
Cry for the stiffness of the earlobe. The turtles are fallen and the rain stands still. How long must I suffer with your undergarments?
May bathtubs overflow upon your gardenias.
Your eyes glow like naked livers burning in the sun.
Your hands do the work of 10,000 highly trained lesbian jumping beans.
Your sunburnt skin is as beautiful as gangrenous flesh peeled from an amputated limb.
Your raw sensuality flusters me as the dog sneezes into the ventilation fan.
Flies dance operas to your wisdom.
Dustmites the world over love you for your feet.
Hermaphrodites around the galaxy desire that you turn your rock and crochet bowl to its loudest setting.
You have the intrepid appeal of a carnivorous apple on its way to a pile of cadaveric stones.
Oh, how your melodic chewing of cotton balls cancels the stamp on my papyrus telegram from the Queen of England.
Woe is me, for I must forever more huddle, unminded, in the dark shadow of thine undeserved engine of procreation.
You are truly a wristwatch in a world of lumps.
Seven donkeys and a concubine cannot compare with the tarnished sheen left in your path of combustion.
The expansion (and resultant rapid cooling) of your consecrated culotte sings the golden turnip with the mulatto touch-typist in my pants.
You look like someone who has lunched poorly and who has no expectations for dinner.
If I were to combine your blood, toes, and hair, it might not be you, but it would be enough for my basic desires.
I see your loves in cloves.
A suburban distance lying across your chest, a purpled frock befitting the asphyxiated, cans of lima beans upon your knees, you are truly a goddess of disturbed tranquility!
The sisters of Catherine the Great ask that you cover yourself with lightbulb filaments and take pains to make yourself fully incandescent this evening.
I surmise that your basement is made of skin and is never depleted of nurses.
Your dainty nostrils flare with the humblest grandiosity of an ant swallowing a water buffalo.
You are a banana moon subverting the sun.
Your eyes are much like milky pools of pantyhose.
Oh how my pathological scar desires to read poems through the ruddied girth of your soul!
The Green Paint on the Walls Clouds my Thoughts of Flying Planks of Wood, Much Like the Elephant Impaled on the Hood of a Lincoln Town Car. Blood Covers One, Paint the Other, and Love Covers You.
The spark of intelligence in your blinking eyes is not unlike the glow from the teeth of an electrocuted axe-murderess.
Woods nymphs sprinkle your path with bowlings balls while you dance and prowl in the sequined moonlight with leftover heads of lettuce.
Tribes of primitve hunters, with rhinestone codpieces rampant, should build pyramids of Chevy engines covered in butterscotch syrup to exalt the diastolic, inef fable, scintillated and cacophonous salamander of truth which slimes and distracts from each and every orifice of your holy refrigerator, Sears be its brand.
Your Cerebral Hematoma requires me to congratulate you on your ability to compute the Lesbian Integral of a macaroon.
In your presence even my shadow acquires the sensation of touch.
When your photons, in effervescent ice-cream (monosyllabic), junk the white (telephone chickens), in a stream (of germinating fundelberries) the lye (in distress) is lifted.
Madam, what a handsome moustache you wear!
May you always be as vivid as your hallucinations.