(Written: June 24th 2010 7:36 p/m)
© Poetess Victoria L. McColley

Ole Mill

The alfalfa fields grow upon the hillside
just past the clover farmers Langstroth bee hives
the brood boxes are made of old apple wood
painted with aspen oils and beet root stain
the pastures went on for miles and miles
with beautiful pampas grasses in full bloom
cactus still thrive over the arrowhead sand pits
as rows of field corn are growing the best whiskey

fire in your soul they say is better than
a fire under your bare ass striking wood
because it is there past the forgotten cow lots
behind the lean-tue shed the sparrows wailed
calling to the echo of yesterday over linseed oils
when willow made beauty resound and stand
carried with knots weaving corn husks within
...and not to scar the virginity of innocent flesh
where her tender nudity was cursing with evil sin

from the hands of an erect demon twin
those vile bastards dig perversions deepest graves
playing their stolen songs on Gibson strings & metal drums
but the wild bird songs watched with crystalline tears flowing
dropping downy feathers to comfort her bleeding wounds
as she turned to taste the fire in her soul..that corn whiskey
stolen from the Ole Mill where Pearl and Myrtle wore aprons
swearing to God and the Holy Pentecostals for healing mercies
as their voices buried deeper than the cemetery pines could burn
drowning out the reality of the fire down below...she swallows...
the corn brood whiskey chaser...