after a working interlude

My morose affinity with your intelligence is something that I cannot liken to anything else without you getting lost in the dizzy haze of my definition.

            Sounds like a putdown doesn’t it?

            Perhaps it is without that being its contention.  My mind is no swifter than its clearly visible shapely curves and sensational bust.  More often than not it is confused and asks questions of itself like a crudely organized parliament.  

I worry that the questions will get ya in the end.  

It doesn't stop my fascination with the mechanics and pulleys of your meticulously designed and affected thought.  Airy as it is it is fed by permanent oxygen and it is something else, dammit.