Spoiled Milk



Take a shallow breath, do not look,

it will hurt and swell for a day or

a lifetime, Sir Stainless Steel, Sir Knight

of that peace breeched speech. He needs

a throat, is desirous of a scourged lifestyle,

a rinsed mouth, followed by one slow

exhalation from his tipsy gypsy breath.


Exhale the dust unexpected. Rather like

a female attempting to become a newborn

scop, or as the blackest crow flies, 

an improbable bard. War is for war born.

White lies are the only vocabulary selected

from her emptied syringe.


He swoops low, gets the handcuffs

caught in a tangle of existentialism

incapable of woman-love just yet,

kicking at fame with broken teeth. Not

a sneer anywhere. His is a few dark tarot

shards that hint at fastidious letters

that almost match a limp member

posing as a quill. That was low, but

called for. He uses used needles.


Time will repeat that arm shot to wonder

if her shouting was proud. Her simple

behest, a love of something foul. Wash it

drainward, wear gloves to protect each

wretched hair on the back of a soft

almost matured mask. An alcohol swab

chaser is still required.


Scars sing his notes way off key,

several octaves wrong, and the notes

are befouled on a fictional stairwell

cluttered with gurgled coos beneath

a mother's wing. Sing and choke.

Sing. Please, but only across from

a well laid six o'clock hypodermic

dinner table.


Her voice is deadend, a piece of burnt

offering, not one phrase made without

a tote or a deep swig from a $2.00 wine,

mysogenized courage from a six pack,

or distillates that spoil the opioids

of her over-dosed days. This is a jab

at her jabs. A jibe at her failure

to communicate.


He walks on egg yokes, incompatible

with words like capable or arty, more

on parade like a virused tyke among adepts,

fine chords, unjealous platforms, or a

sturdy roastpan soapbox. He swaggers,

is a throat coated with 100 proof

desires, best served cold, injected neat.


The sandbox is whack. Toddlers fall

out and get sand in their histories.

Ebonic Empresses are unimpressed,

yawn, and wait for the next sandpail

toter victims to arrive, tapping

her expertly refilled needle, grinning.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

The vaccine. Not a cure, a delay.

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