Lactarium

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Lark rising. Sunday school. My second face twisted, a contorted mess of strange desires. On the steps of some holiday home. Blurred photos, and rivers running red. Shopping malls, flooded. Wine and cat whiskers. She caught me drinking milk from a saucer, and I wasn’t even drunk. Sloping roads, and books to be read regarding pregnancy. The zoo. Sand. Elephants. Hand on throat. Fingers spreading. They spread, like vacant something. Gun America, and American lawns of opulence. Distant dreams of the Rye. In a vehicle some place warm, the roads curve to infinity. On the curb to my right, there’s a girl and she’s singing of summer, yet her eyes are absent. Sunken. Like dried sultanas. Breathing. Kidney stones. Piano keys in desolate London. Vampires, and a broken staircase leading to your heart. The girl’s name is July. She’s only seventeen. Childhood gardens, closed minds, and Pabst Blue Ribbon. They sing to me of endless seas. The Titanic, raised and placed upon a liars tongue. My hands serenade the undoing of what you are. They replicate life. Swamps and old trees. Oysters and whiskey. The biting of ears. Penetration. Empty buildings. The gentle humming of bedside shadows. Strobe lights, hoisted high on shoulders with little regard to oncoming traffic. A pierced navel, with beads gliding across tanned skin. Arched thighs older than icebergs. Breasts more than I can handle. Yellow and blue making green. July wears the ring, and she dreams of a Ferris Wheel. She sighs to the moon. Bodies. Limbs. Every seven seconds, they tremble. Toes, and little pigs. Low flying aeroplanes, legs crossing, then uncrossing. More penetration. Some scenes follow. Then they end, with fingers linked and eyes mirrored. Until they melt again, at the foot of your bed.

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