The Color of Love is Hot Pink

Zounds, my love, you sure can traipse circles
’round my blood muscle, huh?
Behind my eyes goes full-melt
and warms the walls of my skull.
Feeling generous with the lips, are we?
TBH, your breath feels nice entangled with mine.

Why don’t we weave delightedly
through the dawn’s various dews?
Or, if you’re feeling celestial,
I hear Saturn’s gorgeous this time of year.
What if we just experience entirety
in our arms forever?

Neverending nearness is what I need from you,
and the play of your fingers about my chest and face,
the glazed delight in your gaze
as I sink into the warm depths of your body.
Stay with me, and be feral.
This love is too real for us to keep quiet.

-r. miller

More Real

Escape so lucid, lewd
entrancing trace of fleshly liberation.

O cradle me, suffuse me and infuse me.
Softly on the amplitude curvaceous,
her song in whispers or in gasps,
drifting vaporlike across the bed.

How unreal we have become
and yet more real
than we had ever dreamed,
so wholly wet and wetly whole.

I while away languid hours
lost within her miles of allure.
Drenched sensuous and sweet,
the gaze seductive raining over me.

Her all ignites my dull eyes proper.
Her all engulfs my muscle full.

-r. miller

The Way It Goes

Assume that clapping hands will save us.
That the fruits of savagery
can no longer contain their nectar.
An occasional cloud wishes only to make peace,
a useful sentiment perhaps,
but one of which we are ashamed.

Those decomposing czars
have made their case through friable teeth.
Cool, so let’s give’em a show then.
See how they like the sight
of our opalescent skin reflected in the water.
The way our mutual breath unsettles.

Eventually, something notable
will reoccur on a further page.
Until then however,
we palpitate like nervous stars.

-r. miller


You know what? Screw the man
and his blanched institutions,
his rigidified apparatus.
I have my own motor to suck.
The avenue’s casual blisters.

Midmorning heat with a midweek sheen.
Fine, so we’ll polish the protectors,
projectors, protracted sublimity.
The last bastion of progress
and its myriad bugs.
Ball up the horizon like wet tissue.

Here we’ve learned to walk
the talk back to its roots.
A portentous wind brings financial upheaval.
Of this we shall sing,
well into the cemetery’s depths.

-r. miller

Like I Was Saying

When the untethering commences,
what brave new forms of living
shall be ushered in?
At times, the pressure to keep to oneself
is unsuitable, unsustainable.
The tongue of noon, pushing through wilting crowds,
grows fat on its own spit.
A real workhorse passion is at play here,
in the hearts of every forsaken forlorn denizen.
It so happens we push pencils
for the fun of it.
These veiled intrusions
displace the life of the mind.
Suddenly, we find ourselves palpable.

-r. miller

Seamless Miles

It’s much later than we think.
The suburbs, melting into obsolescence,
understand more truthfully.

We’re not prone to admitting much
beyond ordinary defeat.
Sucked back into the chasm,
a mild light resigns.

We leech sweetness
from our thoughtfully weakened spines,
putting on airs and melancholy smiles
as the seamless miles of development
swiftly begin encroaching.

It’s much later than we think.
Carnivorous stars, approaching…

-r. miller

O Commingler!

We weren’t built like the others,
were we? Their parts
and partial flows seem to align
so cleanly, so unremarkably,
while we… Watch your step,
and mind the ellipses.
The gift you’ve been given
is meant to be squandered.

My gracious, I’ve never pondered
quite so ponderously before.
Bright wings, jagged sun,
some perverse yearning on the horizon.
Spread your breadth atop my sleep,
O commingler. Surely
we can waste the weakening
on such mild diversions as these.

And, if you please, mistake me
forever for one whose pride
is unlike your own.

-r. miller

Poem (September 6th, 2022)

With all due respect,
mind your hazards.
Some recollection disperses.
The performance proceeds
with little misadventure.
The first signs of amalgamation
are stirring at the bottom of the mind.

Say we scope out an exit strategy,
what happens then?
Pour our desire
into the rose-enameled sky,
and watch the enterprise enlarge.

Gorgeous throats open
to receive such wisdom.
And all we have is pain,
emaciated and trembling…

-r. miller

Certain Stimuli

Deadass left me in a death’s alley,
volleying for supremacy
with a prick and a pontiff.

Elsewhere, the populace grows stiff,
stunting further projections into the ether
of stifled voices that formed around the state
like a concrete dome.

How nice for them.

But certain stimuli
we withheld from our eager flesh
and clearly it’s only beginning
to exact a rather inexact toll;
it would seem our fate is “sealed,”
as in a wax casing.

And here I figured that the path to salvation
necessarily entailed chasing every chance
ego death wherever they emerged.
Now the wandering catastrophe stills
to emit a prophecy,
one whose implications neither stun nor alarm,
but which nevertheless spell
disquiet for us all.

-r. miller

It’s Not the Heat…

In the heartland,
the deviations are manifold.
Summer shuffles by once, twice,
three times smiling scary.
It happens that we eat the ending.

Certain notions cloud
the surface of the brain,
congealing and dispersing,
congealing and dispersing.
The repetition numbs.

Eyes become heavy in the draggy heat.
And all the while this ragged tune
emits from somewhere out of reach,
threatening to spill our secrets,
to tell us to ourselves.

-r. miller