Spoiled Milk.
day 405 of
refrigeration: my insides have turned to
chunky vomit and sulfur that scares
the demons away—but the darkness,
blinding in its
righteous fury, cradles the worst
possible evil—
a stillness only achievable in
photographs, paintings, rigor mortis
but i am not art. i cannot
die. i can only curse
my mother cow.
the fox on the side of the road.
cunning can’t save you
now, old dog, new tricks
up your nose, down your
throat, decongestants for
arteries clogged up by
love, or something like it—
we all sail across the highway,
women out to sea, looking
for our loyal crew lost to
time, drugs, money, only
to find their body baking on
concrete, sweet cherry pie
ripe as apples for picking
by vulture beaks or goth kids
who worship animal bones,
wear them around their necks