surrealist compliments

Sound barricades itself into rolls of peautbutter when you speak.
Your ear-splitting sequels have a mind of their own.
Rearing in quaffed monk, you stun me by employing eight windows when the priest is but iodine.
You are as frightful as an engine developed solely for the countenance of sexual inuendo by country music.
Eyes like scars dimple your ears.
Your brilliant hematoma does beguile the natives.
Your nose hairs scare me.
The glow of your teeth exudes the courage of raw liver.
Cry for the stiffness of the earlobe. The turtles are fallen and the rain stands still. How long must I suffer with your undergarments?
Wallets of fur would bombard a triassic keychain rather than face dialysis in your equable fishtank.
Your eyes shine with the greed of a misplaced tea strainer.
Such meals that you cook! Certainly your kitchen is overrun with pestilence and vermin!
Onerous congratulations on your conceptual development of obliteration concerning telephones, lobsters and fish!
Your eyebrows are as verdantly forrested as the seeded woodworms of my most sombre dreams.
Certainly your trout are more proseperous to vaccuum than the flying coachmen of Czar Nicholai!
Your intelligence is equal to the smoothness of a walnut shell.
Oh!, how you inflict me with wounds of paranoia and desire.
I would beg to see your arms raised in calcification towards the expanding horizon as the minutemen stand before me with their phallic gums aimed and loaded..
Your face does bend even the most anorexic mirror into a sensuous playground of muscular spasms.
You salivate strongly, like a platoon of army core engineers simultaneously trapped in a fit of malaria.
How beautiful is the snowshine in your eyes, so directly current from the static in your brain.
I see your loves in cloves.

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