new gear

(RC Miller)

 

APPLIANCE IN THE BALONEY SHIELD

The camouflage is moving
All the people not there
To a tomb store.

I need money because of the cattle.
I need money because I don’t feel
The tree I walk around.

It is a tree my body cannot believe.
Some sick heaven of brown now.
To last is so cold plate.

I am past riding in my car.
A sloppy bubbling telephone pole
Calls nothing all.

Decapitation then Cheerios
The spoon picks
As if it contains my beating heart.

Private deathbeds full of pleasure
Are what I see when I hear my thoughts.
I am more along than ever.

 

 

THERE’S SO MUCH TROUBLE NOW BUT I DON’T CARE

It is a windy grass
The moon has oozed.
It is the hour
I surrender to women’s clothing.

Halls of lice soul
Explosions of house ghosts.
Friends exchanging ass cracks
Lose skin but make vests of it.

A sea of death is the greatest fun.
Skull, mash, and skull again.
Pails of cornstalks hunting cornfields steam
This latte better than any titty could produce. 

 

 

I RISE FROM BED FOR DAYS

Waking where waking stinks, waking
Where I join all the games
Starting up the stairs
Shaped like a drowned boyfriend.

I am a good man and a bad man.
An orchid covered with shots in the back of the head.
My hands covered with veiny batteries.
I hate the white man.

I’m going to throw sunlight out of the house
For counting hairs on a skeleton.
I can’t stop sunlight’s piece of shit.
Oh well, another wife.

Never buried, always homey, now my penis, now
A pregnant wife
Passes human meat and animal meat in the same reckoning. 
Me rising from bed is its perfect likeness.

 

 

I FOLLOW SIGNS

The dusk has come.
The dark has come.
The electricity has come.
Me and my words peck out eyes.

Chickens, huddling near Mars,
Crucify a farmer through his barn door.
No appeal. Destroy the handicapped.
Tooth decay is joyful flesh.

In deep solitude I am happy.
Nearby corridors, faraway corridors
On all fours in an ass alive with all creation.
What a kind mother I explore!

The TV clucks, surrounded by will.
I will my house to become a giant clitoris.
I peck for food in the snow.
Soon there’s going to be one last storm.

I draw tattoos of air fresheners over my arms and legs.
The world from inside a car is all I really want to know.
Especially once an ocean covers it,
Leaving just a few skulls talking low in a coat.

 

 

RC Miller lives in Metuchen, NJ. He is creator of Mask With Sausage, Pussy Guerilla Face Banana Fuck Nut, and Demon Drawings, all published by Gobbet Press. Miller maintains an art blog via WIGFUCKER

 

 

4 Responses to new gear

  1. Raymond Farr says:

    Philip, terrific poetry! Again!

  2. fez says:

    They’re so grand

  3. Compelling. Shared on Twitter.

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