Sick of the casket scene,
I’m scheming methods of dispersal.
Consider this a refusal to yield
to the clumsy wheel of the era.
Real talk. My desire to fuck
wears a chalk headdress
and addresses me formally.
Formations of diaphanous compost
compose the space twixt my eyes,
unattended fears and willful blindness
undressing in a meteor rain.
It’s the same on both sides.
Flow ride. Guided tinsel. Travesty.
Hashtags rotting inside of their cells.

-r. miller


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s