Wiping cunts once I sign
Spiked cunts on the Ancient Mariner’s Rime.
Yo thyroids I’m starving!
Keep voting OD in 2012.
The rad thing is I vote how I understand
Cunt heights being blown and shown on TV on a boy
Having kids with his parents fed by my eyebrows told they just careered
As ghastly rides unprobed by flies.
Fly eyes shine dim like their bodiless boss.
White dinners needing to be beaten and hung.
My stinky white skin believes in a login.
2012 in cash.
White TV’s taking the diction must conclude
The revolution is
My parents blowing me.
Like any freedom, we’re in previously charted territory in that freedom.
Twelve plagues then fall from ten horns.
I hang a cloud.
I’m pulled in triggers.
My portrait is my greatest molester,
Parading portraits of your mother aggressor
Carrying drool for mostly one duel.
Deadly electrified hot spots
Dissolve my apprehensive orientation.
And the streets follow a perpetual beginning,
As I begin to follow
A squirted oral nothingness.
Behold our forbidden solstice,
Fading out then jellying loudly.
Vibrations pre-destined, a betrayal or a subscription
Content in choosing to complete
The death already departed.
O bless this food, so vascular after each munching
Of a feared vocabulary quiz.
Your puddle is a feedback forming my tongue’s
Freedom to receive
The implants pronouncing foreign cubes.
I’m hung then triggered.
The clouds pull down
Your greatest molester, all irk and clues.
And pilots are sealing up their windows,
Kicking out sheets like I drool on your mother.
A woman confesses into my mouth
Owls from below her head.
A woman undresses in my
Into my doubt an owl splinters
Folds of old handprint
At once a phantom’s banishment
Last summer, it mustaches the gloomy autumn.
The rooster busts
Bricks of plum wine.
A sea goo pawns the willow bank.
And flowers melon while their lasers
Climb white branches of blob.
A feathered gargoyle scorches
The tyranny of my combustible glaze.
This pasture’s full of moons, it brightens a little
I’m rabid in snow, in black fruit
I’m your gray chasm.
The snow on fruit reflects our bonfire.
In a little world we’ll be gone.
IT’S A JOY TO BE FREE AGAIN
Koans seal traffic racket posing as angels for fish.
I guess I’ll sell koans something additional to neaten severed dicks.
Still, all the fish’ve grown humane.
They’re busy trying to survive Ruth’s shut down organs.
I have beef if they’re halving sexes.
Angels be Ruth’s stem cell toilet’s most intense gig yet,
But they’ll probably just sue the pear up my ass.
Her robotic pubic hair rusts to snare its birth,
Stabs at us till I Snapple and we’re bought into
The foulshot ring of robotic pubic hair.
After that, teen sex seems more important than birthing issues.
I‘m used to robotic issues deporting teen sex into what’s jungling me.
The virginity of a midget belongs on the fact that
I mow down vampires so they repent
Every teen sex fantasy from my fantasy life.
Teen sausages have hot snatches for hands from satisfying midget vampires.
I’m left so bored obsessing over aneurysms.
All the morons that rap like TVs pay for my baby pears’ pulpy abortion.
A black ploy dresses like a white fan and is famous for noting
Those dead from melanoma could readily infuse traffic into shoes or more
Likely sell an angel a humane dick actually worth being called
Ruth’s 500-year-old butthole with no make-up on.
I’d let that sit on my face.
RC Miller lives in Metuchen, N.J. Most recently, he authored Pussy Guerilla Face Banana Fuck Nut (Les Editions Du Zaporogue). He maintains a blog at http://visionblues.blogspot.com/