in loving milieu I’ll dance upon broken boards over bogs that smoke gently in the evening,
over rib-cages patched with the enamored and concussed,
in such dimly lit admiration I’ll press my tongue into your wine glass, into the almost empty
can you hold between your knees, dented, compressed, and full of your spit.
In loving milieu I know one day you’ll get sick of the dead language that rots away on my
lips, much too speckled with mold to want to taste the ups and downs any longer. Sometime
soon I’ll watch you rifle away through the front door with thoughts
of never coming back, with thoughts of every little drop of rain, cat and dog, falling
abusively from clouds older than your granddad’s knees, knees that creak like
your neck in the morning before the coffee is made, before the store across the street
opens up and the sidewalk starts to get stained again with all the tobacco juice, the
spitting gum and ragged fly legs stuck underneath a foot print.
In loving milieu we embrace in such a way we never saw our parents do,
never touching never kissing, never holding fingers under the dinner table, we
shower our mouths in drugs while the other lunatics of our time, opinionated and mindless,
thank them for the 60s.
Neil Shah studied Creative writing and Gender Studies at Western Michigan University, and upon leaving he traveled around the rural Midwest and South working on farms and ranches until settling down (if you can call it that) in New Orleans Louisiana. He has had pieces published in Open Palm Print, SITUATE Magazine, and Horror Sleaze and Trash.