by Brian McCloskey
The rasping descent of her tights. The pesky dribbling bubbles are coming to get them. Doors move, choirs sing and interiors are lighted. They’re pretending that this room and you and I are real. It’s not every day you see a man and a woman at a shooting range comparing the fishnet stockings they’re wearing underneath their jeans. French maid outfits turn a lot of people on. Mosquitoes have stung the blue goat. I need your touches, nightly. And I should not wear these horrid, horrid dresses, nor mix with those horrid, horrid, painted people. Do not forget the skirt! And a woman dressed in mourning held a child’s hand. I can never forget a pair of tights. A simple solution for very cold areas. Watching the white sails disappearing behind the horizon. I gathered his many skirts, forcing them about his waist, and lowered myself. Black pantyhose in September. Keep on going till your hands get hot. No I’m not Eskimo. Her body again began to float away in a sexually tinged fog. The left side of the face has moved into the fear grimace position. This is the hand, the hand that takes. As she ran, snow was collecting on her white tights. Who’s throwing the handles? I always feel like the sexiest woman in any room I enter. I think I want to see you naked except for these sexy tights. Dance till the brain is red with speed! If it does not like you, it disguises itself as a rock. She sits on his lap and allows him to fondle her breasts. When it comes to bosoms, I have to admit defeat. The blinds sending geometric stripes across the sheets.