Sunday, December 28, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Intend another day.
Bones thrown where they belong
Disintegrate all the same.
I follow your skin
Feeling us for home.
You refuse me.
You refuse me nothing.
Our soul is the clay
Mending a vision after it funds
The chatter of other worlds and maps of horror
Our debt shall bring.
In time, an eyeless mammal
Greases the frantic pavement
With our scorn
Clothed a treason because it whines.
O wrathful moon of solid bat,
My master licks the tickle of his stormy complication.
O solid bat moon of warped sunset,
My master won't live through centuries lubricated.
I am followed everywhere I wane,
Breathless in rebirth
And broken to save
Violets for your tan.
It take so many shrimp to target vulnerability.
Traveling round the chlorine, my failures point.
To return a golden lover upon termination,
An access flush meets its exit.
Each morning, my thighs shine against a railing.
Entrances into lotions are temporarily removed.
Upon termination, the escort erases her salvaged crumbs.
Aware of emptiness, the pond is merry.
Scripts sign out like constipated secrets.
The dangle fails
That time where your lips licked furniture.
My passwords change as my sex changes.
Find this ritual which the goat rinses.
HAPPY BANK DAY
The alien niche
That can own
Watches something suffer
Through my thoughts upon suffering
And then I puff
A kidney's four yawns
Making myself the whiplash
Where the body is interlaced
An opal crib of trifling doubles
For demons not wattage
And there they glow
Diverting the night like wind
In or spiting pampered clover
Winded in a scene of panhandlers
Many as children my noodles may afford
All bound and money friendly
O God we shroud the wrong digits
And hustling fog
The choices move necessarily to comfort
A pamphlet against conductive thrills
As you whimper
I am ready to settle
I'll repay you on a score
Submitting the mannered and scripted
Sources of wiped happiness
That soon we'll be stuffed with.
YOU MUST FIND ANOTHER
Humbled by the hate
Arresting nauseous planets,
I'm sorry you are cloaked
And will never be mined.
Seven cigarettes bide my gums
Tipped bites of cheek and then hooves pack
Raw egg fishing shacks
Betting the rind is sensual.
Deprived a roof our hose films a tower
Murmuring the hashed descent.
The tower percolates a mammoth
Parade of voluptuous addicts
Searing wrappers for our discounted props.
Some are a daybreak derangement from what I eat to tread.
Some was what you ate with toast.
And you are silly about what I ate while bait.
As today you is in limbo
Eating my ashes in the quandary of tomorrow.
I'm dying bugged if also quite simply.
My gold already was a substance mulched
For the loan of one grid
Daring the passion hunted animals mentor.
Singing our grace had in malls
And a split with gentle mates,
My genitals wave hamburger space.
And I envy those odors
Loathing lactic stars,
Edible when your lover knocks
Bipolar on principle.
While lovely his noggin competes to rage
In spirals the condemned expect without,
You forage instead the pattied no joint of cram
And forget who I hurt and redistribute.
Where dots and vultures meet,
These beams from my decree
Sling a sleet
Claiming its empire is as useful
As flyspunk on acid drops.
WHEN WE WEAR EACH OTHER
In the humidity I tug my joint
Preventing other wands from sliding to and fro.
Smart ladies poke fun at me
So I kick their lamps out.
After this, hip ladies seldom pout.
It's March. It's April.
The free gifts drink an ode of blood punch.
And in the pores upon my nose
We have our clothes on and reuse touch.
But damp along the month of May
I know who you are.
I'm your kind figured out.
I'm your kind you.
And Autumn arrives near the Winter sacrilege,
A three step cure waiting to strangle
Sleep channel shakers
Stuffing the yard what we're scabbed of.
YOU AND ME IN AUTOPSY
The blisters bake
The riots raging.
The spectrum is chronological and ideal.
I expect anything the hightop sneakers expect, I expect
Blueberry waffles rising from our graves.
I massacre freely
A snap of moos on couch zits.
A meaty deer tainting my twin a pitching again
The coats, the coasts, a Lord of vacuums delightful,
Proves time is difficult,
As this smile is timed
To show a routine fist bleaching our ankles.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
I'd like to stalk something less depressing now.
I could use your tangy piece of ass
To be either really bland or accepting.
So I get on the bus from JFK and all the people were saying
They've been on the bus for over a half an hour.
And then I said are you fucking kidding me.
Two months have gone by since I directly understood what day it is.
Sometimes I think that the more aware of current events I am
The better my poems will present themselves as protest or rebuttal.
I could use a piece of ass.
I should fight in the war.
I would kill the man next to me.
I could then dig up this dead man's mother's corpse and strip her of her death dress
And take the dead man's cock, probably still erect due to the ecstasy of death, and shove
It up his dead mother's corpse's cunt, probably only bones but lubed enough by
Maggot eggs and mud to make insertion easy, and twist it around like a twinkle
Until my hand goes numb.
As a result, I bet I'd become friends with more government agents.
They'd have no other choice since I'm now in the Navy.
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy what I'm doing with retail and stuff.
Take the ads from the '80's.
Yo it do sound so crazy!
A slit of my wrists is regulated
By the rat's ass squirming underneath my writing desk.
Seventh Heaven helps me pee.
The rat's ass provides a late night stand-up routine.
The rat's ass is a photograph standing in for my mother.
I think it's mother died from a bout of political change.
The more aware of current events I am the easier it is to slit my wrists.
The rat's ass says I should slit my wrists now.
It says my words are its limitation.
My mother agrees as she ass sucks the rat's ass.
It's like a dream.
The man next to me would hold my cock if he could.
No war will erase the time it takes me to decide what may be and why.
The man says before you knock it at least try to give his corpse a blow job.
Two months have gone by and it's been like a dream.
People bore me to fucking death
As they embark on their protests or rebuttals.
I give Daddy my roar.
He's never full anymore.
I am sitting next to five warpaths under a dim and low cordless. Throttles scotch like ravens and subterranean escapades. Onions look across at me with a snide envy. Thongs enjoy intercoms on the blade. Splendid infamy orchestrates the rear of a suggestive nut. Eyes jiggle. Music from my women takes leave. Movements correspond to conversions. The wedgie of a gruff trigger explains the weak and hobbles return. The air is not yet liquid but resembling the cold not yet air. Both ways and an ether nipple leaks indignation as the dead pavement attaches itself through autofellatio. I have always known that at last I would take this road but yesterday I did not know that it would be today.
I am cooking at the stove and the water
I realize the knots beyond it.
And the more she sees of my face, the less reliable
A sense of the dark forms words to know.
The snow towards what's taken black.
Friday, December 5, 2008
"VESPER," "HOT FISH DROWN" at Gloom Cupboard http://www.gloomcupboard.com/2008/11/67.html
"AFTER THE LAW" at The Osprey Journal http://www.ospreyjournal.co.uk/3p22.php
"HELP FIND A CURE" at Opium Poetry http://opiumpoetry.wordpress.com/2008/12/03/help-find-a-cure/
"WATCHING PORN IN THE MORNING" at Thieves Jargon http://www.thievesjargon.com/workview.php?work=1270
"SKY CLAD," "BOAR'S HEAD," "UNREAL GOOD LOOKS," "KATY PERRY GOIN' DOWN ON ME," "ACCEPTANCE OF ANNIHILATION," "SUNRISE WITH SEA MONSTERS" at ditch http://www.ditchpoetry.com/rcmiller.htm
Thursday, December 4, 2008
I order a falafel or a gyro.
The women bless it with special juices.
Our demands are devoured as eight dollars worth of what we snare.
This untamed fire of freedom reaches the darkest corners of our world.
I begin to feel wetness running down my legs.
A hunger for dark places, it is the odd time I doubt.
Storing events and common sense, I am fit to breed a master and a slave.
Mercy is absent from every characteristic passing through.
I do some men a favor.
A newspaper falls at my feet.
The headline photographs 18 feared dead and 90 more unphased by a couple of fingers
Experimenting on my penisshaft.
Everyday there are experiments like this.
The pontiff strokes himself while jiving to the theme song of Rocky.
Some people breed more meat than others.
I do a couple of men and feel the witness running down my legs.
I turn around and wet the women blessing my special juices.
I want to speak but my speaking tames Mormons.
The swervey evenings of early December gather and bustle.
Mercy is absent from the newspapers passing through my feet.
The fowls beat on the street favor the other slaves they greet.
The beak of a crow relieves the pivot where free fingers did meet.
I'll wrap it up for you to go real sweet.
I want beauty.
I want to be beautiful but instead I am sardine.
I want your beauty.
Instead, the pain and swelling of what dies in intestinal and skin rumors found in freshwater crayfish, paralyzed by seizures and crud in sputum, often wonders what crimes are in the minds of those who stare me down and appease my relevant solemnity that I fear I should write you about someday, exposing my true poverty.
THE BUSINESS MODEL FOR IN-STORE TV VARIES
I walk around a corner without purpose.
The configurations shaping the corner may be mentally established.
They are boundaries for other boundaries.
Around the corner, it sounds without purpose.
A sound nears, forgets, then suddenly remembers the corner walking over.
Figures lift a center and sides now grounded in floating.
Shapes implode earlier grounds whispering crowds.
Voices appear and begin speaking a sum of their actions.
I respond to the immediate actions I'm fronting.
In the moments I see them I'm forced to act out what stops in the middle of action.
I stop in the middle of fraction.
Everything surrounding me arises, inverts and closes.
Invisible, a drone speculates my confusion.
I'm fed and then floating.
Inverted and closed, the moment has forbidden motion.
The ingestion of frenzy causes pain to my chest and abdomen.
I stare but a staring leap toward hills fuzzy with trees and metal.
I drive nails into myself and skin gushes forth above the blood.
An earlier purpose for terrain slithers.
Inhaling at random, I crawl deterioration.
My eyes are not yet.
AN EXOTIC ADVENTURE IN PARADISE
On a rainy afternoon my self walked into the forest all bold and humping mounds in the dirt, mounds rising from the lamb, my self had shovels, and picks, and axes, and dug throughout the afternoon hoping to uncover my bones, my skin, my carrion, my perished self so unfit for food, a revelation of the self, to forget myself in time and trouble, and explain the self of myself buying tickets to the rain, tickets to the mounds performing a frustrating reiteration on a frustrating reiteration on.
THE STORY SO FAR
Brains get chummy once the master conveys a torrid illusion
Called get lucky.
Brains a million and drumming up roses
Once placebos kill the downpour passing before we fall.
The downpour's sequential, a manner for brains.
Our collars get lucky as they're mastered,
And everything's illusion and passing us dolls.
Ideas of the sacred, too old to derive sense from my youth.
I'm pigs sitting at desks.
I'm pigs watching their watches watch.
I'm pigs with points of view.
By day I want anything.
I want anything, but still
I'm an awful pill to get cummed on.
And as you grow the sun I taste the matter where we live.
A lonely when comes after night.
Though blindness is fun, another contemplates.
Be it your breathmint or milkbone, I always make room for strangers.
All is sorrow.
There is sorrow.
The cause is sorrow.
The removal is sorrow.
The way to the removal is sorrow.
All is sorrow.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
At the heart of Jesus
I'm waking up with a one hour erection in five minutes.
The next selection shall be slow.
Flowers, herbs, and birds squeeze the computer.
For rebels, a buffet is somewhere to relax away from our joke.
So first the world hurt America.
And second America hurt the world.
So third the world wasn't America.
And fourth America was the world that wasn't.
For all this torture, I go back in time.
My asshole poked politely.
I build another time machine.
I go back in time.
My asshole is still a white-collar job.
I'm waking up with just five minutes to live.
In the heart of Jesus is my one hour erection,
A buffet from somewhere the birds and herbs slowly compute
All that they squeeze.
The next selection shall be flowers.
Mohammed Atta revives the one day pet sale.
In defense of decadence, you question my missile off.
Here are some consumer names of the dead.
Here is my education in a mirage of losses.
I snort and shops open.
But do not panic amid these gasses and planets, take your clothes
Off instead, and question Atta in defense of pets.
Robitussin gets me so high I think I'm about to die.
I like being high. I'd like to die.
The shops are open, making me panic.
Poltergeists substitute for blood and crosses.
India is Iran, the laptop the lotus, such very sad stories
From feast to famish.
And here blasts my missile in a mirage of decadence!
The education of the dead is used by consumers
To rename bondage websites after everyone who struggles.
SOUND IS BREATH BUT SEEING
Mysticism may only arise following exorcism.
Death it burns in life the unknown impossibly.
Ancestors travel here during the dream
And place their shadows on the rock.
Ephemeral as thought, yet they remember
That most have too much that believes in them.
Two possible paths. The restless present.
No need to reveal yourself to human form.
Direct contact with what could have been corrupts the form
I touch your fault in.
Pain and joy, a reflection of the real,
It changes the end of uneventful things.
I dwell in all pain. I dwell in all joy.
My shadow, its place is on the rock.
The ancestral dream, it believes to remember too much in this.
All natural experiences lead toward destruction.
One possible path. The restless revealed.
My thoughts they move decayed.
My death it burns somewhere unknown.
The present corrupts a form you touch.
In this is what I could have been.
Climbers of noble flurry
Exhale their shadows
The desert is weightless,
The wading arouses
When graffiti trees glow
Back to bed
Each day I go
Electricity is delicious,
And perhaps implants
Buddy a demon's
I fuck the seconds
Night has a
It's better to be
One wing empty
There is no God
But God above,
The seasons of the discontented,
My storms rewarding a pesky television,
The shells celebrating their durable fiction,
Those fictions conveyed as orbs to honor wholesome lesions,
And lesions enhance the simmer of pandemic cosmetics,
Her cosmetics impatient with the pace of haunted rampage,
The rampage is purest in cocktails negating bumpersticker tumors,
The tumors graduate from an impious processor,
Our process paints the word profit on t-shirts,
Our t-shirts at ease if hemoglobin erodes mandatorily,
The frequency of immoral paychecks is a practical threat,
Extension chords disgrace stumps of optimism and telepathy,
Advanced humanity so smudge resistant but mostly nightmarish,
And fascinating are salt licks that reign beyond
The bloodthirsty dawn rising inverted,
My season of mutant storm,
The discontentment of a pesky shell,