9/18/2016 0 Comments Three Poems by R. MillerThis Is Where the Song Ends This is where the song ends and it's a song we know but could never sing even if we tried. It drifts away in endless air, leaving traces of itself in green, gold, and violet. And so we carry its memory with us into the heart of a city we've designed, whose avenues are piled high with windows that have curtains but no glass. It's a nice city to visit, though kind of shitty to reside in, as we do. It's mystifying how so few of us have dared to leave it. Here, have another drink. Fancy something sweet and festive maybe? The song continues to live not only through us but in the very bones of the city. It reverberates as in a concert hall or the inner sanctum of a cathedral. It doesn't sound so pretty as it echoes, but I like to think that it did at some point. The melody is indistinct now. You merely feel it in your nerves, and it only hurts, it only hurts. She Seeds Turning from the swarm, she in rags oozes a warmth not of this world. Her unwashed hair. She seeds the fallow, waiting the air. To be more than a dissonance. Hot-boxing comrades. We explore this length with our fingers. This length of muscle. Here and there, a rustling, the leaves feeding on the noise. Guts enraptured. And the words captured in her filmy eyes... What happens when the crystal skies drop? What happens... When the heart stops its music? Entranced servitude... The martyr cramps... The heat stroke and the burning jelly of our grace... Meanwhile, crawling through the unlit corridor, bellies to floor. The more we whimper... Faith comes in limping. The facts of efflorescence... Waiting the air to be more than her unwashed eyes. Crystal skies bleeding. She's still there, seeding the fallow, turning from the swarm and feeding the mouth that feeds on dissonance. This world, south of her accidents. And I can't explain... I can't... What my arms disdain... Plain as the motherly impulse she harbors. When the heart stops its music and the white air disperses. Little Death These arise boldly in the empty space between one phrase and the next. The text we have. The text of wounds. And I unwound her heartbeat with fleetness of gesture. We came in on the pressure wave. We rose in measure. This is one way of turning a passing fancy. The beaches whitened. Harbor in her head. She praised death rattles, addled with the anxiety of the postmodern runoff. And when I pointed out the imposing, authoritarian nature of the structures, she merely... Whipped. Tangled. Bleeding by degrees. Towering weed balloons. We in this instance the infidels. We had only just arrived... A near empty bottle of wine resting on the coffee table. The contents downed easily. Her drowsy grasp. Contented but for the... Word giggle. Floatsam. The filigreed archway. She by northwest the energy declaration. And it gave a hope, a morbid and tainted hope. So much insistence. She pursued intermittent throb. Behind her temples the headache focused. What we'd seen in our meager lifetimes could have filled a shelf of books. I lazily pulled the burning spliff from her lips smeared scarlet and took one.. slow... ponderous... drag. As I exhaled, we both watched the languorous smoke coil around the space in front of us, among the solar particles and dust. I turned my gaze toward hers and beheld the tears in her eyes Bio: r. miller is an aspiring poet residing the wilds of Southern Pennsylvania. He is a member of Paper Plane Pilots, an international writers' collective. He has previously published a chapbook entitled "Separate Instances of Loneliness"
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