It’s a Mood

On the chaise longue, on the chaise longue, on the chaise longue,
All day long on the chaise longue.

-Wet Leg

Following the great pause,
mild epiphanies flow like molten silk
through the multicolored canals of the mind.

Indeed, I was just pondering
the aesthetics of the chaise longue.
The curves and rise colliding seamlessly together,
crushed velvet absolving the body of its responsibilities.

Sometimes what I want is to be ethereal,
and this isn’t one of these times.
I inhabit this woozy moment,
imbibing its nectarine sweetness.
Kinda warms the solar plexus
with nuzzles and nifty kisses.

It’s uplifting, no?
in a generic brand sort of way.
And so, what do these curtains,
so carefree and barely parted, contain?
Merely the night, my son. Merely the night.

-r. miller

Is It Time Yet to Get Down?

Somebody’s got a case of the Mondays.
By now, it’s Thursday,
and the forecast is calling
for sophisticated violence.

Get ready for a heartbreaking drip, ignoble tease.
Observe the ease with which these sidewalks
issue their promise of meaningful passage
toward a future circumscribed
only by the city limits.

You know, like I was saying.
Feels like eons ago
that we last donned luxuriant corporate regalia
and got our fill of each other.
Sustained only by heaving gulps of pure energy.
I dig not what the others dig.
This resonance has failed to please.

-r. miller

That’s a Wrap

These aren’t the words you’re looking for.
Please rise, later descend, to the occasion.
The histamines hum vigorously.
The irradiated muscle contracts.

We can have these problems too,
can feast on fallacy and strike out
together into rosy solitude.
Such feral machinery, this thing we call life.

Truly we’re not safe for broadcast,
what with the inky disputes which shroud us,
the not-so-pleasing implications
for the full-bodied Socius.

I’ve given my all, I’m fond of telling myself,
or my all has given me.
Drowsing ferociously in the artificial heat,
my darkening nerves absorb me.

-r. miller

Good Luck With That

I’m guessing the division is unsatisfying.
The undistinguished whatever nags
from behind a gathering storm.
His tsk is eternal.
Unluckily enough, I’m beset on all sides
by crass emojis, sinews
unable to replicate, duress on course.
The main thing is compunction,
humming it up with the demonic.
Trembling aloud
the worst of several indiscretions
that so impress our generation’s battered countenance,
we take to the air, the field, the crosswalk.
Casual Friday won’t ever be the same.

-r. miller

A Kiss Hidden Somewhere

Time to crank up the metaphor machine.
My back got busted at the border
with a kilo of coke, six pounds of weed,
12 tabs of LSD, and a whole
shitload of amphetamines.
Amphetamine, amphetayours.

Leave it to whiplash to lack
what the kids these days are calling snooze.
Doozy ass dipshit rankles
crinkle bunnies in hop.
So goeth the headlines.
And if you think for one gun-fondling second
that I won’t blow my cover before you,
well buckeroo, my pants off to ya.

There’s a kiss hidden somewhere
in this collage, and only the best
trained murmurers possess just the right lips
to locate it. Strap a raw steak
to my cerebral cortex.
I’ll go without saying.

-r. miller

Lay Off Why Don’t Ya

Hot damn,
I’m a little fuck mango.

If it please the court,
I have this generous handful
of indeterminate pills.
That’s not a thought that’s soot.

Like wage I war
with endless cost-of-living.
Surmise me or don’t. Prophecy already.
Go ahead and get shifted in the solar plexus,
but leave the driving to grandma.

You can’t skydive.
I miss the human truth of your smile,
and miles upon miles
wiggle their cans
out of the darkness we regurgitate.

-r. miller

‘Tis the Season

It’s cool to be totally lacking in hope.
Fool me once, you know,
but fool me twice, and it’s orgasmic.
Sliding up and down the grayscale
brings the pleasure of a lifetime,
lays it mangled at your craggy feet,
saying ‘Ain’t it nifty?’

Thoughts range from air purifiers
to overdoses to gay space communism.
Without a working definition,
one could achieve complete self-mastery.

Has thou considered
the web of mystery contained
within the gleaming eyes of a doll?
I sure haven’t, but then again,
I’ve lost all things to consider.

-r. miller

Cry Winter

Going into glisten,
night-blended of course,
and in shock.

We’ll have a smooth one,
on clock sputtering,
spiffy weird conundrum.

Spies in flashlight,
dehydrated yet awash,
cry winter.

In totality blister interest
ceding nothing further
to the cause.

I let my blink aloft
on swoop of wind.
I love once by word,

so it seems.
Onyx canopy drenched in dream,
sliding at last in contradiction.

-r. miller


I want us to imagine
the cosmos as a suppository.
Supposing your predictions fill with blood,
will you then assert
the supremacy of the wiggle?
Get off my mojo, personification of Dunning-Kruger.

I still believe in Santa, after all,
and that means most of us are fucked.
I still believe my conscience is a trained octopus,
and my will is good, yeah-eah-eah yeeeeeeeeeeah.
Stone the way with orthopedic insoles.
This isn’t meant to console you.

-r. miller

But Just Listen

So I got caught up
in a radiant red belch bursting
from oblivion’s canker riddled maw

under its muff I felt the true
sting of progress what
else hypes you up like that my love

is a turbine engine on a murder spree
which is to say it’s only you
and me from here on out kid

please don’t shame me for the way
my hips coagulate you walk
your own damn walk

the pilot light up and dumps
then sprints to the mythical jersey shore
patternless pattern of excitement

all night long we get wasted
on juniper spew waist-deep
in underdog sweat

-r. miller