A milk udder lure between her thigh
though her chanty where bin nigh
as day her ungulate would stack
their jugs full in this wooden shack
while shop worn gloves did amount
a shine must replete but always count
only first total inside their raw clement.

He intimately coaxed the bomb like a lascivious lover
Passionate for death-
Carefully balancing out the ingredients,
Fixing the charge,
His soft-palmed hands caressing each part,
Beneath his unsettling gaze.

In paradise he’d spend his eternity-
Having killed his way towards god.

The crowds gathered in the boulevard
Arm in arm, laughing, relaxed.
He drove past them noting their joy-
Loathing their happiness,
An offence against his desire for death.
Turning his car sharply around
He slowly drove past them again.

In that brief moment, the wind
Gently rocking, his thumb pressed down.

The bomb blew, shredding the air,
Grinding his grinning soul into dust.
The blast ripped screams from each chest:
A world suddenly full of unbearable pain,
Blood crawling along the pavement,
Limbs in the gutter, leaking tears.

His road to heaven cost a hundred lives-
Cracked bodies, fragmented souls-
The squalid suffering of children.
Rivers of milk and honey
Thickened with blood.

Today was the day
I decided to clear out--
no real reason to keep
the junk that has began to rot.

Smelly like moss on a crumbly tree,
or the fashionable nonsmokers room
smelling like there's been quite a few
rebels striking back at a budget motel--
probably because they didn't have enough
television channels, to pacify these poor souls.

The inanimate fixtures are posed for display--
once complex industry
were personified to a fleeting idea of 'purpose',
instead smothers its surroundings
with the validity of indifference;
the forgotten hallows that
truly signify my closing hours.

Inside me now
are the cooing sounds
and the beating wings of fragile pigeons
that seek shelter from a world
trying to forget them;
beginning to call them pest
even though they are snow,
so they must hide within me
and survive with my blood orchids
that begin to bloom--
spilling out of me.

i can watch the
clock on your
dashboard
turning
backwards
the hands going
the wrong direction
it's rare to find a
analogue timepiece
in a car nowadays
even rarer to find one
that goes in retrograde.

and all i can think
about is that i'm not
happy but i'm more
settled inside

isn't it sad
to be living only
in hopes of your
expiration date?

yes
yes it is.

i'm missing last winter
just a little
how safe it felt to be
your shotgun rider
with that perfect and slightly
annoying thirty minute mashup

fifteen minutes there
fifteen minutes back
anxious to leave
anxious to get home
to get into another van
one that wasn't stifled

i was your
shotgun rider
for monday afternoons
and drives to craft fairs
the ball and our own
educational funeral.

(can we petition
to rename
graduations to
educational funerals?)

i miss the old days
when mondays were happy
not anxious
or empty

thinking back on it
we spent too much time
in the back corner booth
of the doughnut shop chain
up on the east hill outside of town
and the coffee wasn't even good

i wish we had just gone to the
grocery store and
got some of that perfect
creamline milk you never shake.

i don't remember
the day i looked
on the label of the
jug and read the date

and it very clearly
was stamped with an
expiration of next
september

but when i tasted it
it had all gone sour
and i wondered how
painful it could be
to throw milk
out early

so i'm leaving it
in the fridge
until autumn
rolls around

just thinking
about how sad
it is to be living
with the hope of dying

but don't people do
the exact same thing?

Remember when life was delivered

from milk right on down to your meat

There'd be people  out delivering groceries

At least two on every side street

If you neglected to pick up an item

Just phone up and talk to the store

A delivery boy would soon bring it

You don't get this service no more

Each house had a door for deliveries

Your milk, cheese and eggs would all fit

If you call up today and said "tab it"

The person you're phoning would ****

Ice was delivered in wagons

Horses pulled them around every town

But, today ony fast food is delivered

And delivery horses aren't  found

Every morning when you'd get your paper

It was delivered as well by a kid

You could smell the fresh bread in the morning

with the glass bottles of milk with gold lids

Remember when life was delivered

It was all a much simpler time

Back when customer service was special

No it's gone and that's just a crime

You age like wine
but you are mine
Young and old

I age like milk
but I am fine
A clever fool

You age like wine
blessed and saved
loved and wanted

I age like milk
brave and alive
strong and sure

You age like wine
sweet and immature
naive and suave  

I age like milk
pretty and patient
loaded and free

You're soft and clean.
Nostalgia fills the throats of Cherubs,
The milk allows them that respite.
Hoarse valleys are no longer bare.
Wings, like lips, flutter upon landing.
Wings , like hands, stutter upon leaving.
Blonde hair holds the Sun in place,
A Sun made to reflect your stare.
Honey filled orifice bled into dry rock,
That was all the land needed,
As it missed feet it had never held,
And knew the paste of blood all too well.

the ghostly thin layer of condensation
gathers on the transparent plastic
there are no ice cubes in sight
it can't be cold
but it can't be warm
the muddy brown liquid confounds me
and there's only one question on my mind...

is that chocolate milk or room-temperature coffee?