Lone Wolf Syndrome

Standard

I in atrophy bled
whispered heat,
screeching valiantly
in venomous streets,
varicose and sour.

Cowering beneath creeds,
six lips read a redness.

We defend the bruises,
babble on about
weak-wristed fame.
Nada tropes and
ropes of greased bone.

I go it alone for
the final time this night.

-r. miller

Post Dispute

Standard

What havoc harries the entryway!
Not this day, he murmurs, not this day.
To say it twice removed by lingering.
All the fingers in the world
can’t touch us now.
Who is she to call me that?
A pale ass-hat to crown the Word.
What a freakish bird she is.
What a freakish…
Soon the sense of wanting to let go
tumbles through the fog,
and the back catalogue of misery
comes to pinch our baking eyes.

-r. miller

A little less candle wax

Standard

Adversity in the avant-garde.
The head we babble
slightly figures aggro rush.
I spent my last red cent.
Adversity twitters. Slow hiccups
move across the length of room.
Doomsayers and stolen prayers.
With a moon in her eye, she vaults
soundlessly the abyss between us.
I drag my bones through her soil,
scope her frame with gelded gaze.
Hazy spaces… For grappling heartache
sift the rubble amid our path
broad swatches of azure and gray
in flummoxed air. Heat
lingering in the abyss between us.
She vaulted. I played dead.

-r. miller