Parable in Comestic Castes.. Like the Bloom of Dandelions

Fucking beer always talking like it knows me. Sour eyelashes batting at balls that aren't there. Castrating the female one tit at a time. In sober annihliations. Sometimes. Often. Habits. Vaccines of sex spoil the meat inside. Nothing to eat.

No supper for stray dogs. Nor the claw marks they've left on the door front.

Clowns in tight pants. Not so funny. Acrobats with greasy hands. Catch the fall with open fists. Long overdue dinners. Meat everywhere. Dark enough.

The spirit. The wince of the jaw as it clenches to swallow that first taste. A cloudy marinade of sour loves choking on the flame.

I listen for a cough from the darkness. Some way to know this night is over. The salt and vinegar in the flesh of men that make everything taste bitter.

I don't know.

Maybe it always did.