Ceci n'est pas un compliment.
You are the Ayatollah of Confusion on the night of Divali.
As the bile slowly rises in my incandescent eluxulation, your mere presence has a calming effect on my rabies.
How can I help but use your eyes as a means for self-asphyxiation?
I find your eye sockets to be a wondrous amusement park filled with neo-plastic pleasures and oncogenic delights.
Your sweet voice is like the snap of a bra strap upon a sunburnt back.
The sand runes crossing your divided consciousness do speak of contemptuous cardinals setting a Spanish village ablaze.
Marmots will stick to you in Delaware.
You turn the atmosphere wild with currents of vitriol when you smile at the passing insects.
