Palm bruised, knuckles bruised.  The downtown buildings I've been pounding on my walk to work lately have been taking a beating.  Screw the infrastructure. My hands need love.  Need to touch, hold, caress more than marble, granite, thongless statuettes. 

Female magma.  I yearn for her eruption.  That earth-shakin' where I trembling fall, for dear life grip core, and succumb to warm tongues of moltenness lapping, lapping, lapping...

Do you disapprove of the Buddha now hewn out of stone with a persisting smirk of cryptic bliss?   Her moltenness frozen forever upon his lips?  I feel like I've already committed myself to the fallout of that same everlasting impress.  Let's just call it a kiss.  Ravaged by a phreatic tongue breaching a metaphor of lips and rendering crystalline teeth willingly defenseless.