Tables

She resembles a boredom.
Dropped from the high heavens
to the plump earth,
spurting all over the grump.
She smiles through another’s teeth.
Fatal wreath. Bequeathed stumps.
In pumps, she wonders.
But it isn’t quite the same
as facing critical conjecture.
My the… injection
and… the… of… shifting blips.
Creases in flux. This is
whatever the lummox wanted,
a plate of gray eggs
and canned laughter.
After afternoon’s spooned
from the creepy weather, she’ll sever.
Shit basted. Stillness pasted on her.
She you demanded enough
process leeches.
Beseech her hair.
And grieve her eyes.

-r. miller

Nausea

Stomachaches stun the metropole.
Politicking and grumbling
all the way to the accident marsh.
And the steel wool
they pull out of the brain
is just delighting in detritus.

We give mush to the groomsmen in paper hats,
travelling along the cables
in the afternoon sweet.
Your heartbeat and my flushed interior.
Crab festoons. The moniker.
He went feeding.

-r. miller

The Birth of Tragedy

From the new dialogue
arose a tenderness
like a wicked funnel of smoke.
We broke apart
our open-ended questions
to fit inside the scenery
that blossomed around us,
confounding our a priori faculties
and looming like a gallows.
We weren’t exactly sober witnesses.
A strange whiteness
crowned the staggering
distance before us.
The chorus chattered
amongst themselves
in graceless tones,
droning on into the late hours.
What few spectators there were
dropped flowers at the fringe.
Our mutual solitude
singed us in the strangest way,
and nobody could really say
what everyone was thinking.
All anyone knew for sure
was that the shrinking  sense of belonging
could no longer bear our weight.
A fate worth being resigned to,
we decided.

-r. miller

Bellyful of Bellyaches

These are our bloodied blossoms.
Bruised temperaments
urge the tempest onward,
onward toward the clarity
hiding in the eye of solitude.
And us with our antennae twisted up…
Despite my clenched fists,
I come in peace, and I bring
mad tidings of oversexed impulsivity.
This pulsing, sweaty mess of flesh
before you was once a man, that is,
until I got through with him.
Your beacons don’t stand a chance
in this darkness. This soupy swamp
we nurture will be the mouth
that devours you.

-r. miller

Lovers’ Quarrel

Consider this a momentary
lapse in lavishness.
I came once and ravished
the surrounding hillside
in a comely disaster.
Life moves away faster
after you pinch its digits in your teeth.
I laid a wreath of hair and vitamins
upon the ground.
The sky came once and showered me
with the banality of its vices.
Six weeks on ice, and I haven’t
got a dime to show for it.
Just pour me over the sofa,
why don’t you, as you would a libation.
And I’ll be a libation, if you want me to be,
to the angry deity we service
and his spirit rending project.

-r. miller

Give Me a Name

Give me a name.
Something blameworthy.
Saddled with scurvy,
riddled with red hot remorse.
Coarse and corruptible.

Give me a name.
Make it real shameful.
Poke it full of holes
with soulless skewers.
Drag it through
the dankest of sewers,
soak it in sludge.

Give me a name.
Something you can shape
with your mouth.
Make sure its sound
is the sound of a moth
having its wings ripped to shreds.

Give me a name.
Just give me a name.

-r. miller

Money Grubbin’

I read “insulted”
instead of “insulated.”
Lustily, the scrappers
scrape the tablelands
with their hands of ash
and accidents.
Last block blinking blue.

A shoehorn matters not.
Tradition dictates
that we take one suitor
by the testes and brand him
with a casual burn.
Our life is turnstiles.

The miles are melodic.

Episodic exploitation.
Cauterized calligraphy.
We turn to torch our vanity and in turn,
our vanity valorizes our vultures.
You should know by now
that culture is a crypt.

-r. miller