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Marcus Whale
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Milk
it's the smell of it
its inexorable pull
and i grow weaker
weaker with the lull
i have learned
that the stronger exist
by the eating of others
fetidly
i belong to them
to sustain the rhythm
of decay
the milk of them
my scourges of black lust
in the milk of them
buried in the breast
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a slew of low chords
accompany my bloodlust
my dying opens in the fields
and claims a body count
live through this
take all of me now
to build a centre
the milk of them
my scourges of black lust
in the milk of them
buried in the breast
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