by Brian McCloskey
Can I have one to surge with? For there were only two windows on the city and the buildings ate me. These are the instruments of sex outdoors. That does it: no more contact with the human race. How can the same street intersect with itself? We do not provide housing for the pigeons. They can save the dying population of an invisible planet by bringing them a chicken. The rustle of skirts, the sound of a kiss. I like your house. Why is that mirror sneezing? If life gives you a lemon, you’re crazy. That is not a door, it is a wall, stupid. I was admiring that colossal shirt. Push the blue side up. Apparently I’m a big whore. She has to be squeezed immediately before she explodes. The ironing is delicious. The dancers were luminous, languid and dreamy. The gun is stupid. A tiger in each knee. Rendered mute as a child by eating a can of expired pineapple. No thanks, I already own a penguin. Somebody want to lose the duck? You are a bundle of energy, always on the go. And the star you fall in love to comes out on Christmas Eve. I love these new suspenders. Rotate my arms 36 times. Don’t throw heads at me. We’re in a tight spot. I was occasionally allowed to feed the giraffes. A nice slice of toast would really hit the spot now.