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, all published by Schism2 Press. Miller maintains an art blog via WIGFUCKER
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