burst! rc miller

WORLD KENNEL

Last summer, it stashes our 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.
This pasture's full of moons, it brightens a little
Like spittle.

A feathered gargoyle scorches
The tyranny of my combustible glaze.
I’m rabid in snow, in black fruit
I’m your gray chasm.

The snow on fruit reflects a bonfire.
In a little world we’ll be gone.



OBLIVION 

Mangles the uncanny blue of
A river that usually knows which mules to let pass, and which
Ones deserve drowning.
Standing on the shore, a claw spares the plastic bag
It cuddles.
Other survivors absorb the pages burning
So they might learn new ways of farming.
And without some fantasy to grovel, a slight refraction 
Makes the world seem tolerable.
Vultures circle this ditty, snacking on human follicle.
I pity the river, perhaps I'm filthy



THE OLD RACE

Aboard the shipwreck,
We wear moist wings of bandit geese.
Blue shrapnel bones exit our dusty breath.
There is nothing here.
This is a candle.

Marinating the furnace,
We torture a widowed owl.
Wicker smiles sacrifice her for rust.
There is something here.
This is a rodeo.

Objects unwrap themselves
To navigate mammal shadows.
Mute gifts banish themselves
To swap thirst for melancholy sod.

With wrinkles like a coffin lid,
My hands rinse a funeral’s holographic scalp.
My race
Swarms the unsung drought

Frozen in chunks of water
Flowing apart from frozen chunks of river.



WINDOWSILL

Brushing my teeth near the weekend,
Brushing my company with horsehair,
I glisten like I'm stuck, listless and spied.
The rent's overdue, and I only wish to stay
To avoid the loneliness.
A beast dives into my center.
This perfection surely means death.
The nauseating realization that existence is a disease
From which no recovery is attainable.
And now I feel sad, pledging a truth no matter
How distressing it seems.
I attempt to uncover morals within despair.
A windowsill of pears must last me through the week.
I regret all forms of conformity, especially the rational.
Death is life's defining reality.
The inner argument ends there.