Croak

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

Lush

Fullness in the way
the light moves the clouds.
Had I words to describe…
Your brain, a rancid sponge.

My vanity plunged me
into the asphalt garden, assaulted me
with multi-colored steel beams.
Then the cream of evening…
rising like a measured breath
from the tops of monuments
erected to celebrate failed divinity…
sat in the sky and curdled there.

We bitched for an hour
over lukewarm beer.
Dour diagnoses sang we.
The words were like stains.
Tumid sat we in the rain and in the heat.
“A heap of broken images”

-r. miller

Bad Thoughts

I dragged fatigue through rivers we made,
it was tears, black tears and fetid tears.

It was gross out at night, all the time
constantly bearing blear in lumps.

Galvanized (not) instead etherized.
Greasy limp and waddling.

Following the exits to the spare room
of my life… all mess.

Weekend glowering.
You a quivering wreck.

-r. miller

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