21 January 2016

RC Miller: 7 poems and 7 videos

Some videos contain graphic images. NSFW. --Ed.


Pasta in limbo.
Laundry in limbo.
I have no income.

A washcloth walks faster
Than ample blank flowers.
I feel insane when I get into bed.

Digested shrimp age calmly.
They pick a postcard from my guts.
Shrimp recount their remains to shrimp pussy faraway.

An erased mouse has chapped lips.
I live like it lives.
I used to be more friendly.


Their pin numbers invent me middle-aged.
So bored of the light, so bored of the darkness,
I’ve come to the door mannequin fist bumps defend.

Under a bulb made of sandwich,
Every hair on my head is a medical helicopter-
A ghoulish palm tree on a nuked-blue beach.

Noses nailed to feet
Gonna listen to my urine pretending to be a monkey.
This motherfucking prison of Saint Augustine!

The very little food left in the world
Shows what I’ve been looking for all my life.
Great are those who use up my words.


Large numbers of dead in important places have hair and they’re boring.
Authors on arms, cancers on faces.
Lawn chairs for bones.

One day they’ll be rewound.

On a day devoted to simplicity,
Storewide eyeholes cook tacos.
Their mall from the fence to the mall is never wrong.


An old Tibetan nursing her flea bites
Is another kind of Big Mac specializing in zits on pearls.
Some fleas are manholes, some fleas are flagpoles.
Their zits are the answer to the answer.

Old Tibetans reincarnate slaves of the ABC's.
I buy one as a joke to wrap Christmas presents with.
When not praying for zero balances, Christmas is a police brutality fan.
Unarmed Big Macs witness drink machines displacing money I either got or don't.


Abstract flus pork skeleton slug faces.
Abstract teens slug flu leopard pork.
Abstract pork in my pocket pays for the dishonest life
Squirrel nuts fall asleep on.
Accomplished spaceship crashes wash the last dishes.

I'm in love with the modern world.
This truffle butter world,
Shipping for free across dark and tortured carrot sticks.
And I'm in love with a baby panda snuff film
Featuring post-9/11 blenders full of gravel.

I delete an iPhone photo of old folks driven to death by phone scammers.
The damp edges of their tight graves tend naproxen sodium.
Books and dry coughs are eating me out.
Fish and tomatoes on a calf-head road
Burp tartar.


The cum on his neck is art.
His cum on me is the average I thirst for.

Happiness comes, depression comes.
All the buzz on dolls that are Wi-Fi enabled hums.

I've run out of cum.
God replaces it with teams of mustard and ketchup.

Gandhi swallows a gallon, Mandela swallows a tub.
Writing shit about cum for the rich is not art.

Ripped from Fugs 4, Rounders Score vinyl. Recorded in 1965. Pressed by ESP-Disk in 1975. 


I was told an angel came
And bowled my game.
I pick noses from the sky.

I keep love to myself.
I've got no words, wait, more for
Electronic depressives.

From the puttering sun, God casts our knees into our eyes.
And we follow fear and doubt through art and life.
In this direction I question the iced coffee I hold instead of

Electric cock.
Art and life cast menstrual waltzes
Lovely in late sun.

And I burst with living rock!
A chattering informer.
I pick from my eyes

A slow focused surviving beyond recognition.
She’s an ordered mock hoarder
Addicted to the great wide road of golden mud.

RC Miller