Our past and future’s written in the skin
that forms atop the mtn dilk. The milk 
firms up the soda foam like sofa stuffing

and licks its greases in concentric tidal swills
toward the glass’s lip. Try it, I urge you,       
offering a swig of livewire spider

cloudy orangeness curdling in the stein.
Did I mention that the mtn dilk has vodka in it?
(Women only want one thing and it’s fucking

cirrhosis.) Could do with a slosh of cointreau though
if you’re fancy. My life’s a sloppy cocktail menu on fire.
My friends are always welcome in my house

if you’re okay pushing mounds of clothes off the couch
to sit down. I nest comfortably upon my throne 
of thrifted satins and merino-possum. You compliment

my many interesting stones, my desperate artworks, 
my carnivorous pot plants, which you keep saying look like dicks
and you know what: I see it. Bulbous heads on burgeoning pitchers

turgid and veiny, their unripe lids jutting like… glanses…
and hinged with little… frenulums? But I insist 
the matured jugs, flaring their toothy lips,

also evoke an alluring vagina dentata. 
It’s altogether awfully bisexual. And these 
are just the organs formed for feeding with.

When the plants actually attempt to flower 
I cut off their inflorescent stems.
Propagate them by cloning, a sexless eden

rooting in dank sphagnum, these naïve 
green promises blessedly the only cuttings 
to worry about in this house for some time now,

the slip of sharps only a care-full act. I like when new lovers 
assume my puckered scars are sumptuous stretch marks
like I like to hope any old dismemberment 

can eventually be seen as growth. A coiling thing 
that drinks in sunlight, that turns up its reddening 
cock at the world and can willingly accept 

all the horrid crawling things inside itself 
only to become more hardcore and magnificent. 
But anyways I see I’ve been neglecting 

my mtn dilk. You have to drink it quick. 
I knock back the neon cream and in its silken dregs 
I read our fortune: the sun will go on rising orangely 

on the daily, and we may forgive each other our failures 
but never our victories. I’m sorry. But I feel this
manifesting. New powers simmer in my guts already. 

Featured photo courtesy of Reddit user ArrowYoghurt.
Cocktail jugs photo courtesy of author.


In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.


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