by Brian McCloskey
A gold velour shirt, tight black leggings (that really shine when wet). He’s like a happy buffalo. And the women wearing dresses, scarves and stockings. I would love to be completely covered with tights and leotards. These are the limits of your life. The dance continues. I want to be a flower. My car is dead and I am merely a panda who has lost her cheese. Clothes are a waste of money. Steady as a goat, we’re flying over trout. That seems like a little more than you need for a raccoon. Panoramas are not what they used to be. The factory’s open, but we’re making different stuff. My lizard doesn’t have teeth. There are ways. I will not speak with the actress unless they ask me. Your beauty and my name will be forgotten. I’m frequently pierced. You must have shot an awful lot of tigers. I need Fred Astaire to help me with a vacuum cleaner. Each slowly and erotically dressed – sliding on stockings, clipping garter belts. She looks like an ant that gets prettier every day. You could have driven a train between your right elbow. I know, I’ll put all my money, including coins, down my tights. We’re over Europe, moving into the night. The mirror sets it trap for two. I’m not the one who’s going to explode. With black opaque tights and flat boots, how offensive could it be? I can smell your brains. Never stick otters to a sexy cone! They heard I slid down the banister without my underpants.