They Don’t Stop Comin’

It’s official.
I no longer suffice.
The ice that cools the drink
eventually merges with that drink,
resulting in a lesser beverage
that nobody really enjoys.
Take my livelihood if you must,
but leave my neuroses where they waver.
Just as well, scrape the savor
from my tongue.
You can have good taste
or be well-hung, but never both.
I’ve completely lost track
of where this was going,
but I’ll be sure that it gets there
in a chariot laden with explosives.

-r. miller

Hold Me Accountable

Holy aroma of the dissatisfied
in circulation. I am wedded
to extracurricular activity
ad absurdum. I keep my meat
distressed and dressed in tinder.
The city’s insect murmurings
clobber me from a safe distance,
but by all means,
hold me accountable.
Table that discreetly.
Or else change fangs.
Nothing a big bang theory
can’t delineate. I’ll get a handle
on my own fate when the moon
has run its brooding course
and sunk into cerulean.
Today however,
is for pickling.

-r. miller

Millennial Woes

Concerning clapback traps
my warbling in teeth of glass.
If you don’t mind, pass me over
for promotional excess grieving.
We’re leaving in the morning,
aren’t we? for biting shores
where the sunshine goes to die.
The old-at-heart
get their tummies twisted
listening to us rattle off
a litany of trauma.
Defy my diorama once,
see if you like it, if things
play out semi-spectacularly
with a flourish of flames
thrown in for good/bad measure.
Who strapped weighted gods
to my eyelids? Who left
the accident dial at eleven?
Who else forgot their toothbrush?

-r. miller

A Roaming Itch

Basking in foam
with a roaming itch betwixt us,
your vibrating lips shape desire
into something expressive.
You’re so permissive, it’s inspiring!
Now my tiring treks
through tuneless tundras
as I sought for tokens of spring
seem wholly justified.
The crush I had kept inside
has fried my intuition
in a most delicious way.
We hold the moment as we may,
as day arises new
and sheepish from its casket
to beg of us our blood.

-r. miller

A Scene in Process

Stalwart, we push
the beauty parlor out of commission.
We move on to a submission
hold on our wayward instincts,
making a scene in process
out of pine fragrance and rigor mortis.
“Death is not glamorous,”
and neither is the way
of life we’ve pilfered/fallen into.
Our fashion sense outsteps us
at every available opportunity.
Flabbergast me, then,
and I’ll shimmy the way you like,
but with my head on backwards
and my libido throes
cooking up my insides.

-r. miller

The Undressing Phase

What if the whispers
pummeling their way
through the walls
of this here wedding cake
were secretly detesting
the undressing phase
we’re both stuck in?
Imagine the smorgasbord of scandal
overturned on top of us,
and all I wanted was to tune up,
turn up in a blaze,
and make sweet glove
to your restless hands
while they enfold me.
Now all that’s left
is a pandemic of frailty
spreading between our bones
and mutual disposition.

-r. miller

More Intently

Sometimes, I listen
more intently than intended.
The body politic’s a bit distended
in the belly and whispers in my ear
a few rancid words
regarding depersonalization.
This ain’t my first rodeo, fuckface,
if a rodeo is what we’re dealing with.
All the lights go out when prompted,
to fidget in cold back alleys
waiting for a fix.
You get your licks in sluggishly,
your kicks in the form of a question.
Not to spoil the mood,
but the answer always withholds its insight
until it’s too late. At last,
we are abated, frenzied lurkers,
our dancing star stillborn within our chaos.

-r. miller

Let’s Get On With It

There comes a time
for getting a grip.
On what, exactly,
is no one’s prerogative,
and stealthily, a shy breeze
moves through the semi-
collapsed passage your love
has bored. Interestingly enough,
we moored our moroseness
on an adjacent shore.

As such, the grand tour
is concluded. Back to our night
sweats and muffled cries,
our plaintive songs we sing to fill time.

I haven’t yet owned up
to my true crime of passion,
but yes, there comes a time,
and that time is for getting a grip.
Until then, slip me
into another ooey-gooey coma

that I may find any part
of this desirable.

-r. miller

A Darker Version of Ourselves

It’s uninspiring, the rain’s gray aria
so we lay our little weapons down
in rows and thicken with the clouds.
Moving phantom-like through crowds,

I keep tabs on my pulse, diminishing
in the dinning poised to subdue
the silence. Images of violence
parade across the mind’s still screen.

We careen into a darker
version of ourselves, and pull
the light from the other’s gaze,
sinking slowly in the winter haze.

-r. miller

Despite the Decline

I haven’t stopped laughing
despite the decline. Tell me
I’m mine to disperse with
at the leisure of the willing night.
Generalized hurts move drastically
through cracks in the psyche.
Nothing right or stable about that,
nor is there much left to see
within the kaleidoscopic rains
pummeling the block.
The few instants where a solid shock
would improve the sanguine temper
of the moment have long since fluttered.
Mutterings about the spiritual
assume a clear shape
as they linger in the inner ear.
No one of us here
is asking to be blessed,
only corrected, polished, and posed.
Always, I keep this prayer
festering inside of my mouth,
swaddled in mourning breath.

-r. miller