🚀 go-pugleaf

CRP: Would that the cobalt-rust skies might loom dense and low as
I gently chisel yr [y'know] from your chest, speaking softly as I
so do that my consideswiping words to you might beat a pleximetric
echo in yr skull, through and past your moment of death, leaving you
[y'know]-damagedly roaming the worm-troughs of however much of a
preternity you might wish yrself with a splitinerant headache and
an inexpurgateable memoire of how tapers I lit to you had been
circustomarici juggled and <what with I, as you rather vacuously
pointed out, being me (and me, doubtless, being I)> let fall on
strawbeds to conflagrate on your nerves, then logging out, place
my arms in a wrapt position on the desktop and slumber the better
for the breezy air-turbulence of yr franticking gesticulations,
alas! too late for regretort: two vicious deceaseismics there for
you, O Cornerstone of My Slaughterhouse, just due, if you ask me,
which, of course, you won't -- I mean, why should you? -- for yr
own CRP, which lay a mite sickly upon the palate, not that I'd wish
you to think, O Double Strength Artificially Sweetened Honey Dear,
that you are not every dewy petal of every flower I stand upon, the
light of truth in the beady eyes of every wasp I blithely clobber,
every missing month as tallied isomorphically to the revolutions
of yr own heavenly orbs (urk) as you carve the calendar, every ray of
glorious sunshine burrowing cancerastes in my dermis: Sing: I've Got
You Under My Skglug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug-glug
warbling live from Chicago of how a frog ("That can find no log //
To hop, // But if, Baby, I'm the bottom, // You're the top!" da da da
de da, da da DA!) when kissed turns into a frog with lipstick traces.

[Daniel: well, well, well.  Have you heard the exceedingly obscure
chanson about how, on the first day of Christmas, someone's true love
magi-gifted him/her with a partridge in a pear(s)-tree?  No?  Oh, ok,
I was only asking.]

Cnon-RP: About that missing month, darling, I'd advise you to swap
the 1p chewing-gum for the 2p variety: much better for congealatory
purposes to reaffix it in proven provender for yr liverish
canniballistic urges; or jellybabies, what about jellybabies... no,
deftly changing the subject to how you cut a figure with that fourteen
(14) fixation of yrs, have the rotten swine taken yr toy test@come-into
-my-parlour away?  And if I can't speak, and you can't speak, and my
inadequalms preclude the buzzing of anthems of doomed tolerance on
telephone wires, then I can only hope that you can fold origamesmanship
paper planes to surrend me messes & messages of how we'll go no more
a-rillin' by aurora borealis as our eyesores meet across crowded smoky
ftp sites (oops, slipping: rename file Cnon-RP.sleaze to CRP.sleaze)
during my respite from the day-job as advertising executting-edge on
KILR 105.5 FM, where the management is kinda cute, if a trifle .........
...................................................yes, a sherry trifle.

H.