Milk

Dirty eyes rest above
purple valleys set deep in
the garden of bone.

The smoke of his cigarette, the
fog of his falling breath, feet
perpetually bound by the gravity

of his dependance step to

Main Street under the power

of the spiraling black hole

stretching its tendrils to the backs of his heels,

through his hollow spine,

along bubbling veins,

from beneath the cover of his weathered,

old mattress.

Flat of the street rises – waves of
concrete wash away cars, strangers,
the stray black cat on the sewer
scrapping for a taste of milk –

in a fit of fury built beneath

careless shoes and a few naked feet.

Light of the sky sinks –

stars shimmer and burn when pressed

tight in celestial vice, hot iron for the
universal branding of this sickly runt.

He raises his glass to catastrophe,
and empties the milk inside
with three sips and a sigh.

Cue for the world to spin backwards
A Clockwork Orange –
his crooked smile and lips ringed white
the only reminder of yesterday.