Surrealist Compliments
These are little things called Surrealist Compliments. Most of them really make no sense whatsoever, but for some reason I love them to death. And if this page isn't enough for you, I got them from here.
Seven donkeys and a concubine cannot compare with the tarnished sheen left in your path of combustion.
How beautiful is the snowshine in your eyes, so directly current from the static in your brain.
Your elbow patches rumble with a fear reminiscent of mayonnaise sidecars cradled in scotchguard.
Thine right eye so plitherates that thine left eye doth graze upon it.
Woods nymphs sprinkle your path with bowlings balls while you dance and prowl in the sequined moonlight with leftover heads of lettuce.
Oh, how your melodic chewing of cotton balls cancels the stamp on my papyrus telegram from the Queen of England.
In your presence even my shadow acquires the sensation of touch.
Your Hands do the work of 10,000 highly trained lesbian jumping beans.
Your pendulous thorax makes cellists envious of the rotund sounds emanating from your nose in D minor.
I must demand your pleasing chin! How it passes there and back again like a leopard searching for its misplaced frontal lobes.
So charmingly heathen, your skin is like a teardrop on a popsickle.
Hermaphrodites around the galaxy desire that you turn your rock and crochet bowl to its loudest setting.
I find your eye sockets to be a wondrous amusement park filled with neo-plastic pleasures and oncogenic delights.
Your eyes flash upon my cathode ray flesh in a manner that propels my viscera into an eternal state of turgid flux.
The microfine network of eyes traversing your shoulders causes me to shudder in anticipation of the coming of the wondrous season of jaundiced eskimos and impotent Anglican priests.
You turn the atmosphere wild with currents of vitriol when you smile at the passing insects.
Be still, my love, my watermelon rind. I am consumed with your collection of agile fans and spare blades.
May bathtubs overflow upon your gardenias.
Madame, your implement is admonishing me!
Your eyelids reflect and refract the turgid limnations of an eel trapped in the flickering paralysis of Chaplin's cinematography.
Troglodyte kidneys measure your eyes in sardonic spasms not unlike the movements of an albatross buried in creosote.
When your photons, in effervescent ice-cream (monosyllabic), junk the white (telephone chickens), in a stream (of germinating fundelberries) the lye (in distress) is lifted.
Your delightful banana reminds me of a cosmonaut in high heels.
Onerous congratulations on your conceptual development of obliteration concerning telephones, lobsters and fish!
Bleed me! My memory is fried with your pork!
Soybean futures pale when carageen is sent under the enigma of postage stamped upon your brow.
Sound barricades itself into rolls of peautbutter when you speak.
The tiny sounds of ancient bees resound forth from the forrested coercions between your toes.
You are more beautiful than a bouquet of fossils.
In caressing your follicles I am only vaguely reminded of the bitter harvest.
Your eyes flash upon my cathode ray flesh in a manner that propels my viscera into an eternal state of turgid flux.
When faced with scathing winds and torrents pouring forth stain, your mind thinks cleverly to the leprous angels found in all train crashes.
Its a far far better thing I do than to require that you find me a hammer and pummel me with all due diligence, but yet remember that it is I, your solicitor, who keeps you from aligning too much with the listerine salesman.
If you behave there will be cake for the miscreants we call your brothers.
Optical delusions still themselves when you pass by in convexing pomp and sacral trance
Woe is me, for I must forever more huddle, unminded, in the dark shadow of thine undeserved engine of procreation.
May clinging breasts always come to your aid in the kitchen.
The seared runes crossing your divided consciousness do speak of contemptuous cardinals setting a spanish villa ablaze.
Your love is like 1000 caucasian carnivores playing mumblety peg with an eggplant.
May you always be as vivid as your hallucinations.
My eyelids belch with effluvial afterthoughts when you tease me with jello and chicken rinds.
Your presence reminds one of a blind jackal, eternally dependent upon misguided archbishops to provide instruction in bowling.
Your nose hair is pleasingly twisted with the roots of a bristlecone pine that is so precariously perched on the side of a cliff it may easily uproot and fall upon the Republican lobbyists below.
The phase of your hallucinations reminds me of those balmy days when the championship mould was breeding, when the fish were long, and so were the valued floats of men we drank through narrow straws...
The dimples of your breasts do pucker evocatively when you smile.
You are as orange as a congeleen afro curled around the bony edges of a silver spoon expressing its innermost desires for a lime-based detergent.
You blink thrice warned that I can but think of the eyebrows of Richard Nixon covering a hostess of furry twinkies.
ENGINEER YOUR AUNT! Do it! You will be grateful for having done so. Yolutsky promises to cease his diddling with your ears.
