Milk Thistle Cries When Ground

Tight layering of fermented  
despair necrotic tissue  
a collection of the gyre  
Tattoos and scars coloration  
depleted can be seen with  
your head cocked to one side.
 
Sleep in your peculiar ways  
the joy carved into your bony appearance a reflection of the  
vile things that help you dream  
 
Vultures pick apart choice  
memories freeze dried  
Punctured by stray needles  
raining down from a piebald  
sky  
Losing bits of your alluvial  
green
cross draft mirages fade
 
 Milk thistle cries, as you grind  
and snort her through your  
decayed nasal.
Chasing prickly powder with
 a shot of diesel fuel  
 
Old ways sealed with steeping  
hemlock held together with
 sutures patterned after the
sections of your bleached skull
leacking out one- hundred  
year old joy onto the black  
canvas you hold close to your  
shriveling heart