Wild woman on a sofa

   
   "Wild woman on a sofa"
   
   Having been electrically ill and unwanted as I ooze the doom of weirdness, igniting always that of toxic flatulence on misery's command; specifically, I feel solace on the fresh linens that ornament my bed.  Not a place for carnal contagion, but a pre-coffin, a place to lay and pray, and maybe not die in a state of suffering for Southerners, for the American South rejects comfort by way of an opinionated government that controls medication.  Regardless, how holy is your bed?  Not to be smeared with juicy discharge from the oral and vaginal areas of a loose dame, her damning the intent of Saintly synergy as you levitate on the mattress of death.  Better to watch iZOMBIE and craft a grilled-cheese sandwich on oatmeal bread with an orange hint of turmeric to calm the chainsaws that might be perpetually cutting through your large intestine.
   Thus, a love sofa.  It having the intent of spiritual lovemake, not just allowing you to spray slippery jism over your adoration, but passing her the Spirit of love's romantic command, enslaving her to a freedom with you, mating like a wild dog's life, not gone malcontent and misfitways; plus, burning wise incense over the sofa for reasons of purification, always keeping your bed clean from nefarious spills and devilish dust bunnies, in order to engage in the super-symmetrical art of pristine prayer.