Is? Like?

My four fingers:

Are you plump penises, throbbing sensitively in the gloomy air of the city? Or are you more like sheathed knives, and ever ready to stab and stab and stab and stab?

My five nails:

Are you bitter, jagged penny-chews, cheap things for childish wants? Or are you more like ivory, an incredible thing of an incredible creature, the fact of your continued existence utterly brilliant?

My myriad bones:

Are you a machine, brutal, instrumental, mechanical, predictable? Or are you like a fine ornament made of the best china, to be preciously kept from other hands high up in a closed cupboard, except on special occasions?

Me fist myself:

Are you your blog, hateful, unpredictable, isolated? Or are you more like a glove, hating the cold air and the shaking human and the shocks and knocks of the city, longing to be casually tossed upon the arm of the chaise longue, with its comfortable, temporary peace?