by Brian McCloskey
But did that river really exist? Some of his throat was still there. You didn’t say anything about a motor when I was on the ceiling. Nice hole, nice soul. The ceiling floats away with a sigh. Some things are sacred. An oboe represents the tension as they sneak away. Nude except for black garter belt, hose and red heels. Can you come over and help me squeeze my lemons? The tree of my song is bare. At all times she is required to dress in a sexy, feminine manner, wearing stockings. Enveloping my breasts like the warm hands of a confident, yet gentle lover. I need you so much closer. Don’t let a suitcase full of cheese become your big fork and spoon. A purple lycra party dress that really shines in the water. They certainly don’t keep it upstairs. For the dog it felt good to bite. The goats are escaping. At least all my songs don’t taste like garlic. Take off those crazy mediaeval tights. Answer the stripe question. Or you can take your refrigerator around the world. The first Beatles album teaches him a new language. The only animal which has remained lingering in my memory is the raccoon. Waltz, bad nymphs, for quick jigs vex. And all the girls seemed to be wearing striped tights. For three months a person sits and looks at you, imagining a kiss. I can lend you a pair of black ones that will look like tights. I love dancing naked in front of you. I offer you this flower as a sign of my love.