Zero to a fault,
caustic shift to page.
Bluster frail delight
in pondering grave.
One service guts the savior, please,
but in disappointed time.
A potent sense of dislocation.
This makes a new this
by rhythmic fodder.
However how we disinter.
Next disintegration
likens what the holding
signs a sleight. There,
alight upon a verbal tension,
I loosen my urge
and folly up the sentence.
-r. miller
a distinct aversion
to blank we in
absolving backlash
dismantled crux
absorbing the thoroughfare
for want must
needs impertinence
of gesture web
though altogether
signed off
on the negation
so it came by cutting
insofar as rut befits
the tender equipage
of what lust permits
in my palm the sighs
-r. miller
In lurching
and strange cadence,
the wake up fizzles.
Slow and sympathetic.
A palpable decline
clouds the glass.
The wires in his eyes,
fermenting.
The chords in his
fingertips…
Dry, decrepit words
collapse in his throat
and the ruins melt
into a buttery sea
of mucous.
The camera
shifts its focus
to a darkened corner
of the room, where
a scarlet silhouette
has soaked
into the carpet….
-r. miller
This idle certainty appalls,
though I seek shelter
in what it discloses.
It takes years to occupy
the space between one phrase
and the next.
I could be hollow-bodied.
Or else a variation of entropy…
With one kiss I could negate me
and all my meanings.
Partially golden and disguised.
Eyes trained on a quivering.
-r. miller
I gave it to you
in blisters, rosy
and divine.
How sadly a life
hangs by its own devices…
A moment’s specialness
ruthlessly divides.
Without imagination.
The foreground of error.
We tune our hands
to what we weave.
By insecurity thrust
headfirst into gulfs
of burning sand.
With a harshness
of throat no balm
could soothe.
Our legacy is thirst.
-r. miller
her careless clasping
me in what filigreed servitude.
pallid drifting multitude
and I ache in baking
still merely shaking
in my origami skin
-r. miller
These querulous postures
admit no hesitance.
Laments as thick as dollars.
And we in all come
tottering on the wires.
Nowhere we lick
the fires with our
woven tongues.
Yet another rung
of the ladder…
-r. miller
Certain days we fell back to barbs.
In the suburbs, in the air between
knowledge and certainty.
A note came in with the flood.
Something about a crack in the mirror…
Growing more noticeable by the minute.
Certain days there’s no fun in it,
and those days we pour from on high
into glass vats of our making.
No one takes agoraphobia lightly.
Our makeshift heads capsize
and clatter endlessly until midnight.
-r. miller
Soon to be culled,
some whispering deficiency
and all it holds dear.
The searing flames later we sired.
Then what was up with the perspiring,
the wandering choir
or we had once a tower
erected of names
(We were once a tower).
The calendar shifted.
We misplaced vows.
Nurtured the we that spin
and cry in some weird hurricane of lust.
The thought that counts its fingers.
You and me, we two in trust,
lingering where our folly bleeds.
-r. miller
Sensation is toxic,
she tells me,
and her lips
taste like evergreen.
The body is a tragedy.
In the cellular rain,
I can feel mine
dissolving.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 