Black Milk

The dead cannot record my festering lines.

They only squeeze the pulp from jaunting fantasies.

An aging faucet is leaking white wine.

Disparage bloody mules, little carver.

Rust collects the keys that fit my copper spine.

Howling bones brutalize a monstrous canine’s paws.

Eggs crack the guarded muscles, that are painted so divine.

A stream of boiled flags flow furiously below the deck.

The balm drips its stars and I will drink the oozing vine.

Little carver, behold the beauty of tweaking and twisting feathers.

Soon, a ghoulish night will find you savoring a salted swine.

To dance like black milk is a consumer’s lifelong quarry.

In your heated state, with dripping hair, neglect the pungent brine.