like vagrants at a burn barrel, our impetuous hands return every night... to set the mood, we salt the earth with ingenious crotch shots. at the premium channel of her viral epitaph, i pledge apocryphal safe words. however, her merciless dubstep reduces my heartfelt poetry to balls deep mumbo jumbo. by the precise coincidence of superior mechanical effort, my cuckoo clock conquers her military time zone. at zero dark thirty, the criminal record she handcuffs to my spanking hot fingerprint analysis induces a red carpet to explode from my quivering panic room. suffering is the poor man's aphrodisiac and our self defeating passion falls well below the poverty line. for posterity's sake, i utilize my backwater survival instincts to stock her drowning pool with newborn cannon fodder. the operating strength of her labia is a cozy straitjacket and when she ties my knot the heavens rain pretzels. i insure our pathological ecstasy will never be reproduced whence i bury her toxic womb in a futuristic potter's field (and) make elegant worm food of her purple clit. i prolong her agonized fuck face with astronomical head games, then, in the garish humidity of famous last words, before vanishing, i profane her ancient ruins. with outrageous ardor, she searches for my infamous disco ball. the splat of her sultry teardrops bongo like war drums on my circumcised helmet. to taunt her multi-dimensional wrath, i slide meticulous rainbows into her muddy self refraction. for a radius of myriad occasions, she staples xeroxes of my exaggerated penis onto anatomical flag poles, while i twiddle thumbs in the subliminal ether, confounding her confrontational stalk with knockoff treasure maps stenciled by the flicker of lodestars made disreputable by the adversarial parallax of siamese cyclops. to this day, she bloats my syringe with terminal vacuoles.