And the dead will rise from the living,
Shit in their rice bowls and throw it
To the chanting germs and ceiling bats
Repeating a growl kneeling depth
Of gropes not relevant but exhausting smog
Plaid and panting legislators flailing,
Spinning on the scruffiness of an incensed wad
Forgiving the fuckslap where time lapsed
Between slops of schedules and festive curds
Scattering in pillows stuffed with cacophonous leeches
Slender like an ankle and flexible like the thongs
Monks wear when they cream my kabob slanted,
And the damage displayed is a trickling simulcast,
Collectively folded inside iridescent colons
Burping up a dismal afterglow pungency
Breeching the boo fun
Of living as the risen dead shitting in their rice bowls.
Human indifference on the ocean floor weighs
An eye opening inside three dogs a month.
The soccer ball arrives maybe next week.
If it’s mammal it’ll be patient enough to rest in tease
As a kokigami.
Insects outnumber human indifference.
An eye opens then reeks coin-operated fame
Dredged from oyster beds plated to mate.
My wife operates a pole-dancing fitness club.
Two janitors there guest star as janitors.
Adult diapers claim the shelf.
The ocean weighs
Cleaning the lethal parts of my glock, putting
Myself away and high-fibering it.
I know everything about nothing and more nothings.
An enunciation of conventional modern protection.
There’s that void in my head, donut snot.
I smoke a bowl and present my wife with a boner.
I don’t blame her.
What would voters say?
Why didn’t I die as a child.
War is mine.
Love is hiemlich.
A war on tour.
The moon in a blacktop.
Drugs and books are eating me out of house and home.
I don’t blame them.
I’ve been sleeping with
The human cost of rash.
A footnote says PS fuck a dog, then go fuck a dog fucker.
I take the car to the butcher.
I take the Listerine to the wedding.
An inextricable pond within oxygen is its collagen.
As these are scapegoat times,
Let’s hook fish in a holy flood way.
Blame them, they’re sleeping.
All I’m saying
Is my wife smokes a bowl and presents me with her boner over
Disillusionment lost to nub aspiration.
There’s my urine by the role
Which Ryan Gosling struck gold.
By the shoal he does
The heating bill,
Impossible to please
Pink, green, or beige.
There are worse days, and
Ryan Gosling is how
Leaves blow the garage
Housing alligators from
Suicides of band-grenade
Goiters the chimpanzee
Rakes off its thighs; its throat
Pierced by an armrest
Tender on the
Depth of however doom
Sees natural daylight inside
What the afterworld sees outside
My full-colored ancestor
Claims runs once more
To the tweezer for a cuticle
Its earliest ancestor assembles
At the intersection at the bloodmobile.
RC Miller lives in Metuchen, New Jersey. He is author of the chapbooks Windex We Can (Wheelchair Party), A Large Retailer (Ronin Press), GORE (Calliope Nerve Media), and blogs at WIGFUCKER