by Brian McCloskey
The pages of all the books are blank. See how I look in tights. Then he slowly moves his hands towards her breasts. How could I not love someone as beautiful as you? The little orange France above my heart. You’re gonna punch a kitten later? Move right hand across left breast. More Russian profanities. I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d scream. I have failed in everything I have tried to do. And parsnips taste like parsnips. A lifetime of measuring the complexity behind such an endlessly astonishing face. It’s more about invisible midgets under your skirt. Let’s make it a happy pig. You, it’s you, it will always be you. Now you’re going to think about your tongue. She’s got a small waist and big breasts. He buys her a piano and they fall in love. One of her filmy silk stockings lay in a shimmering pile beside the bed. To kiss lengthily, passionately or lustily. Her arms about me are love. It was a net flung wide, like fishnet stockings. He was there when I had the fight with the waffle. There are no shadows anywhere. This is obviously the bad house. And our coconuts kept banging together. I wouldn’t mind twisting a thing. I know the goose. And tied his horse to me. The spooky rumbling is a distant timpani.