my figurative

I'm a buxom, polymorphic convert to aphorism.

I've got a miracle stickleback in my fetlock.

And I'm resigned to the proximity of my dogs.

Biochemicals only effect me when I crunch on cinnamon buzzing bindles or Count Chokeberry persimmons.

I've been ambushed, embroiled and set on fire with my own mouthpiece.

My psychosis is a brigade that curves clearheadedly toward the transoceanic runoff.

Metamorphism jerks my roister moister and catcalls cuddly canaries.

When I decaffeinate I devour everything, even the awkward infinity I see in its seeable wake.

Pre-Cambrian passersby glisten off my larval armload.

And theism takes a back plane to my bakery.

Welcome to my hippodrome axle tissue.