It’s up, the fucker, come get at the milk.
Here, see? It dries on the top like a skin, come get at it with you thumbs and your fingers and roll it up. Real gentle, you get it? Cut it in squares off the surface and roll it up. Real gentle with your fingers that's how you pull up the white skin- pull too hard and it rips. You get it friend? Knee deep in the milk bog feel like a lady Pin-Prick don't you with your delicate fingers and matrimony
Sweetly, sweetly, no sweat or you’ll make it all stick.
There it is, the fucker, bringing up the morning like a crippled dog on a leash.
The fucker making the sky red as a drunk. Crawl up the ceiling on its palms and knees with its back arched and its golden ass raised and stiff, fucker wants you to look.
You wanna work, don’t you? Get you a girl you can buy a flower for? A little girl thirsty for your whispers, proud of you tired with your trimmed fingernails delicate as a wet-nurse’s lips (hahaha)
Place must've been wild here before they made the milk bog with its pus and sitting.
Before this the whole place was dirt or water, place natural and stirring and beating, sick with its life and green and dark. None of this gray mud and the fucker shining his golden ass over your back till it peels like the skin of the bog.
Look at them udder strummers there crouched over like fucks their hands all lotioned and soft as the bottom of a lake, hear them singing? Like live oaks they sing like candied wind like morning like old houses I like their singing.
You must have slept strong boy you've got eyes sitting still.
Ain’t it sour the smell of the skin, attracts the snakes at night, but don’t get nervous they go back to the fallen leaves soon as they get a bath in it. I liked the feel of it more than the way it looked when I first got here, but I always liked the feel of things. Always been what I remember dreaming, sometimes still like the way the gray mud feels to my toes. Look at them udder strummers in the reflection of the skin see how they look like they're carrying them cows like old women singing like live oak that one there’s Marcy she’s born on an island.
Yeah, there goes that fucker, moving real slow like it aint busy. Thing like that ain't even worth talking about. Things like that ought to burn out and leave us to the night.
Keep your eye on the rolls, Princess Fingernail, that milkskin's got to get in the box clean, five in a box, clean as the virgin queen's clit or we don’t get our dollar worth.