by Brian McCloskey
A gift from my favourite crustacean. Well, how big is the pig? The surrealistic mindscape is my pet obsession. This is a cement hole. Wait until it rains and wear it with tights. Those fluid hips, those cars or camels. One day a horse stepped on me. I don’t know Buffalo Bill. His miraculous hand untangled her tights and they came away. And the knife is tall. Even the old stove rebels at the vile trash. My heart has been yours now and will always remain. He parts the blouse, revealing the bra. Don’t dismiss the ships. My shoes are melting. She had on a big print skirt and black tights. My cushion is flat. The animal with skin like a beard. Well, I love fishnet stockings. The dog is in the dogcase. The relative merits of stockings or tights. He especially likes black fishnet stockings with a lacy black garter belt. A severe insult to the brain. One muffin for six women. And they’re baited with custard. Wearing their clothes makes me feel closer to them. Does this uniform make me look pretty? What an ugly bag. The magic fish turn away and cry. It looked like it could run. I’m watching as the shapes are drawing slowly from her eyes.