Form Over Content


Owes its origin to gesture. 

Tenseness flits in a deep sigh 
through bands of light. 

An image, pressed somewhere,
implodes, fashions a fervor. 

A mimic distends beyond 
possible recognition. 

There, overturning the fission, 
dust-addled grooves 
trace competition 
in the positional abstract 
inflaming the mirror. 

So my sides chap, what of it? 

I’m still more or less entitled 
to my bit of the tropics, 
the catastrophic lunatic binge 
cupped against my neck! 

I’ll ransack this debate 
clear to the fringe, 
force a fist of fucked lament 
to blare its own elegy 
through the holes in the walls. 

Which have expanded, 
by the way, 
to my embarrassment. 

It’s not something that I 
make a point to pursue, 
so don’t get used to it, 

and more importantly, 
don’t lecture me about 
the economics of illness. 

I’ve raided that set of text already, 
smoked the characters, 
and turned the rest 
into fertilizer for nocturnal emissions. 


I don’t see too much of these lately, 
no more scattered impressions 
aching to make a break 
for the passage. 

This isn’t on my conscience 
any longer. And if anyone 
says otherwise, I’ll oppose 
with extravagance and seizures. 

See, the frenetic delivery 
forms a formidable mask, 
a shell worthy 
of the most stalwart crustacean. 

Stay the shambles, 

harness the ruins 
to further destitution. 

The work of iconoclasts is never through. 

-r. miller


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