2/15/17

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Yesteryear, the syphilitics praise
a redundancy like no other.
Doomed we are to walk this sullen road,
comet tails ablaze and biting.
I’ve drank of the stagnant water
poured from the horse’s mouth
and felt otherwise refreshed.
It was like this in the future
we saw once in the iPhone ad.
My teeth came unclenched.
Mucked the filter, fucked the landline.
Scrubbed down with anxiousness
and turpentine, we don hefty robes
and chain smoke in oblivion.
The taste is slightly sour, often sweet.
Nothing beats an evening in the shade.

-r. miller

1/27/17

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Felled by a marvelous wind,
we leave things as they are,
as we found them.
Gloom slinks somewhere
in the periphery.
A pause elicits no response.
We water the dark and are sated,
worn down the nerves
and flimsy shoes. All aboard
the blues express.
Dusk by the handful.
A marble altar for the centerpiece
and a gauge to monitor
our fleshy vibes.
We draw us to ourselves purposefully.
Refuted truths to feed
the hollow heads.
Simultaneous, we burn.

-r. miller

Untitled

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I swimming thru headache,
tired swooping
eyes heavy handing.

The sand bags plummet.
How my gums
begin to bleed
is truly a wonder.
And the fruits
of my plunder
have yet begun to wither.

Thither goeth
a sensuous shiver.
A season and
a caustic liver.
Leaky creaking.

Must all this
nervous weeping
truly persist?

-r. miller

Burning Mouth

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Lonely in the loveliest air,
I spare no expense!
I raise clenched hands
to the upper atmosphere,
shouting “Take my hands!”
And the various sands
of a singular idea
pour into my ears,
making it très difficile to hear
anything else. And my hands
are still there, clenched as ever,
and just as meaningless.
So I burn a stick of incense,
put it ‘tween my lips,
then I wait for it to burn
all the way to the end
so the ember sets fire
to my undeserving mouth.
The power I feel then
is unparalleled.

-r. miller

Placid Cast of Beauty

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I created the following poem using the words of Edgar Allan Poe from the story “Ligeia” 

I cannot for my soul,
long through much suffering,
bring these points to mind.
Her singular yet placid cast of beauty.

Eloquence. Her low… musical.
My heart steadily and stealthily…
I believe that I first met her: old, decaying city.
I have surely heard her speak…

Ligeia buried impressions.
I bring before my eyes in fancy, Her
who is no more a recollection. Never known.
Who became a playful charge.

Or was it a test of my strength of affection?
Or was it rather… Offering on the shrine
of most passionate devotion.
The fact itself… what wonder the circumstances.

Spirit which is entitled Romance,
the wan and misty-eyed,
presided over… Surely she presided.
My memory fails me…

She was her latter days. To portray
the majesty, the quiet ease,
the incomprehensible lightness and elasticity.
She came and departed as shadow.

-r. miller

Croak

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The repressed boys in the gaslight
all have vegetable fetishes.
Mangled trunks and members
upsetting the fabulous decor.
They pimp meat to emasculated princes
with peppered thighs. Two steps away
from immaculate catastrophe.
Someone marks his sex with an apostrophe.
Reckless feeding. Orange wrists.
Wonder who gave him a random fuck-
wound in the mouth.
The power of pulchritude
burnishes his suck suck,
his sock all gummied up,
thumbs up in the wind,
hidden in the hills.
He’s got a real will on him, don’t he?
But him don’t talk like us,
him don’t puke the way we puke,
him don’t have a flag to hoist
above his ravaged, rancid paysage.
They took him by his visage
and pumped him full of fetid fruit,
then left the brute in tatters
by the accidental grave.
“Save him for the worms,” they said.

-r. miller