perfectly stained

i write the whole novel on your sadistically naked;
dangerously baked & perfectly so packed body;
but won't let anyone read that, my lady.
every page of your life i fill; do drill
with an ink of my love, my quill;
will chill the holyness of your stained soul, tranquil,
tranquilizer, your love. your breath, windmill;
& will swing you whole night till anew dawn on freewill.
what you're to me -- just an enigma!!
& in your enigmatic vibes i'm drunk, deeply
every night i write whatever comes popped up in my head
but latter, i'm dead...
half dead, half alive, i must be?
what should i call myself ---
a potter? or real groper of your written-yet-unwritten shoved story?
do i discolor the color of your lipstick
the painter you better call me?
perhaps, i oft. rune the whole novel on your numbly naked body
so now, if your beautiful muse dare addressing me drunk-writer,
i'm afraid, my love,
i'll have to take your under love-custody of Mr. Nobody
just for [having] the pleasure of your [perfectly stained] body.