Tag Archives: RC Miller

Selection of poems by RC Miller

BUDDHA DATA

It hasn’t entered into my like,
That’s what’s gotta happen.
I suppose if I get drunk,
And Ms. Pac-Man saunters over for her chunk
On the bunk,
My man, you best bet I snake that dunk!
This is a small community.
The pharmacist always orders online.
There’s no way out.
If escape becomes even remotely possible,
Ghostbusters flip your ass around
And pound it like the Nile running backwards.
I wash my clothes in the bathtub to save money.
Tall black foxes dress my land of Lincoln.
I’m bummed otherness
Born slowly dead.

EVERYTHING CRABS

Suicide bombings here at the Marriott conclude my tribal reasoning.
I fail to understand the value of dissuading nuclear war.
Across the continental United States, a new wave of rogue nations prompt
Their own arms race.
Fiery surprises fired from remotely piloted predators report a death, and its
Knack for regrouping out in sports-cars, boozing with sexy office coroners
Arguing all floors, all stores, all original prices for no good reason.
If Hamas rockets were aimed at your children you’d sure save on great gaming!
Atheists add,
Those so called “crush videos” are sexually explicit fetish films, usually
Home spun, depicting women dressed up in dominatrix uniforms and taking
Pleasure in crushing small animals to a pulp.
I understand your flailing confidence in the governmental structure of
The United States.
For good reason, the country without wealth is an enigmatic figment seeping.
Its air is always our death arriving.
And while scouting locations for hamburger my mind dries up, it shrinks like
What I once felt was worthy of stating, like the beliefs of a writer
Depraved in the head.
I spend my bonuses lying to myself.
The cripples beat cancer stricken children with hospital beds.
All actions are as meaningless as counterculture
Or Islam going green.
I fail to underestimate the trance belonging to my receptionist.
Our air is only minced hamburger perfected.
The jungle side of a terrible towel.

BERKELEY SPRINGS
 
Mummified shortages
Praise their ordinary liquid
 
Traffic collapses
A flash of stability others hack
 
Crouching fences
Erected on the verge of sparse dwellings
Tear my pubic hairs
The imitator’s pole
Impregnated by an ulterior self
Ablaze,
Meanders and chants just to stomp through
This muck of disfigured marvel
 
Chewing bits and pieces
Of hours to thrill
My excess turning ghostly

TACKLING CLIMATE CHANGE

In a rare act
They were like angels of death.
They were so sure of something
They didn’t even look back.
Israel and America, what is there to say?
As temperatures dip, cashmeres drop.
And no early end is seen
To those coveted items we’ve been holding
For right moments for just the right out on.
A Western couple clad in half-eaten meals.
Longer intervals between reloading and arbitrary walking.
If we were the sale before, chances are
We are still the sale before the one
We wake up early for.
This is the sale that makes us go
We’ve acted that sale before.
The items coveted start snuffing us
And waking up to see no early end.
The emptiness like a rare angel
Clad in half-eaten death.

THE GOSPEL AND OUR IMAGE

Operators of the paranormal Christ
Place their black balls on our xerox machine.
My copy bleeds unemployed grape juice.
The contamination is strictly a hazard for the middle-class.
I have made certain my breakdown is properly placed.
I bitterly stress reasons that fear the public
In fear of war and invasive acts of foreign hostilities.
Forget whether war be declared or not, the proportions of the military
Amount to an uprising of usurped enemies or any act of spent rectums
Indirectly terrorizing this clause where much fisting occurs.
My chemicals separate and agree that consciousness
Is a molten object combining pre-motion and motion pre-sickness
Cucumbering your salad bowl.
I never thought I’d carry clients or coin slots.
I never thought I’d care about what my hive lacks.
My heart wishes for the next metadata,
Commenting on a copy of quests to suck from.
If I want a counter-proposal,
Just stab this lollipop coated
Yes prince,
And God shall belt my skin-bag by penetrating a pitiless tempest
Begging for the aloe
Arriving from an air-borne frost of turpentine.
The gospel and our image,
So punk like a payable.
Migrations of impairment
Calculate something about the water tasting burnt.
If your facility is available,
I’ll alcoholic myself uncensored.
The worst is simulated.
The cosmos comes back to its picnic.
My balls are your earrings.
Chest reductions determine our truth.
Is this an existence examined?
Explosive lightning clear cut in loaves and trails and
Tornadoes and hail and hurricanes terminating an account
In lump sums of extinction installments.
Subjective qualities deter our picnic.
Chest reductions alcoholic my balls uncensored.
Those earrings are as punk as the cosmos.

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