by Brian McCloskey
She is always rubbing her breasts against me. He’s got four enormous radishes sticking out of his bag. It isn’t obvious that a pig would be responsible for the fate of a frog. Then she got on some tangent about hosiery. Everything is black and rotting. He said the sensuous feel of them made him feel sexy and comfortable. When I have no blue, I use red. Her tongue moved along the soft nylon encasing her foot. And my talent filled it wit water. When it’s a cold winter morning we sit on the end of the bed and put on our tights together. Another friend took off her tights and suspended them from the fan in the hallway. The round dog is angry. Shouldering their bags they trudged, the sad Egyptians. And we all like our lingerie, hosiery, panties, bras and corsets. That’s all I need to hear to know that this is going to be some outrageously good love. As maid’s breast against breast of maid. I’ll be glad when I can wear a skirt again. Our saliva intermingles with the remains of prehistoric beasts. I’d like a short skirt (black) with black tights. I slipped some artichokes into your car. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. I wore my black bouncy skirt in public. Well, it affects how much lingerie you can have. Selected women would be given the special tights to try on at home. Amanda your tights, Amanda your skirt. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. They are useful, more than they are beautiful. They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone. All tales of circus life are highly demoralising.