Monument and Maiden

From the cut of his pants, Ken's buttocks and thighs must have had to swell, yes freakishly, in order to align themselves with a naturally swinging bat. His skull was a granite helmet carved to cover optimistic projectures for the tightest fill of any bronze head.

She took him easily, mercilessly, like a retarded kitty. His spine implants and hours squatting proved no match for sequins and bottomless limitations. Even so, her painted zygote fingers at one point tried to claw at heaven for more success juice. Her wizened silhouette, thrown unflatteringly there against a disintegrating wall of memorabilia, besotted life for him, starting then, both back and forth by calendar.

Or had they form changed by trading lyric go-go cages at the height of their passion as a way to be truly all over and up inside one and with the other?