by Brian McCloskey
I write in times of plus and minus. With yellow breast and head of solid gold. Shooting the bed is a bit surreal. Toward something that the world is pointing toward. I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart. The crow will be wrong. The sides of your trousers had a gleam. We can tiptoe through blood. More beautiful than anything in this world. The cogs in your head will concoct the idea that I'm not human. So I shall bind you tight in black elastic. We invented zero. Blows a snow kiss, invisible as they say God is. We live beneath these geese. Let's get dressed up like sex. And the soup would always be different. Rather than words comes the thought of high windows. A bridge holds itself up. Let the skunk out of the trunk. Pillars supporting the gate of paradise! Grotesque and extravagant for timid maids to tremble at. I'm only good at finding cows. Out of the picture of life, as it were, out. The bishop was appalled. I want dark leather seats cool on thigh backs. The arrow indicates the direction of a pig. Unexpectedly vespine stone attack. The ordinary, wide scene which begins. Mimic tentacles, exactly 12, in the dusty air. Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive. He is harsh, dismal, ice - that is, exiled.