by Brian McCloskey
Someone has come to change the world. I felt proud to be a woman. He swims above the female and begins caressing her with seven of his arms. Her torn tights now display the milky skin beneath. One's fishnet and one's sheer. So the story is slowly unfolding in paint. Constricting, but not crushing. Most people my age loved them from the very beginning and couldn’t wait to get a hold of them. If I go to Istanbul, will I return? Such a fine wrist, such a way with an onion! But here’s the twist—it was at the request of his wife. The boy's blank face asked the blank window. When I rotate it, the quality is terrible! The dogs need new shoes. How did she walk with her sausages? If I loved you, would you be so frightened? This is what you hear in music. One woman splattered her purple imprints with orange paint. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking paper. Ethereal ballet dancers in enchanted forests. And now the temptress of tights is trying to ruin me! Then, just cut one onion off as you need it. I always love a scalloped edge! The second holds something French. The tower was an iron stanza scrawled across the frozen cityscape. By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand. She bought soy milk and I bought cheap tights. Tights are okay any time of the year. You stuff your ears with moss to mute the abacus of trees. I feel bad about my labia. I never knew you were such a terrible singer.