Friday, December 30, 2011

Ode to Pennywise the Clown

Two thousand years ago I walked your streets.
Killing and destroying ~ devouring the young. Not even wasting their fatted bones.
Now, brought back by your memories I’ve returned to have my promised feast.

Madhouse clown is ready to slaughter.
The eater of worlds is alive.

August 1992
Victor Millan

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

THE 971

The 971 stands out like a motherfucker
proud of its yellow frame and stained glass windows in the slick
Latino neighborhood.
The grease overflows around here and is available at a fair price.

Blue movies enthrall the patrons at the porno house.
Foul looks from the restless natives mouthing impressive curses.
A young man got caught stealing and his rights
are being read up against the wall.

Take a drag
Take a life

Oh what the fuck ~ Lunch in Paris it is.

Victor Millan

Gut of the First Spit

It’s funny. Well, not really.
Maybe it’s just one of those funny-crazy 5th dimension kinda things. Crazy like when the primary gods blew it up in this Big Bang not mentioned in The Holy Bible.
Crazy like when it’s said that you, me, and all the nameless strangers walking on the
loose out there are brothers.
Brothers of the first seed.
Brothers with the thieving crows eating Elvis’ dog food from right under his wet nose.
Brothers with the waterlogged clouds sponging along holding a mantra like reversed
poles on the bounce (+ -).
Brothers w/the stardust and the tumbling heavy metals ~ immortal in different forms.
Brothers with all the galaxies oscillating, the planets orbiting and their harems of moons living through strange days ~ some thriving.

Crazy like you, me, that, them, and so on into the outside of the universe having the same lineage. Crazy how we all interact within our conjoined energy collective.

We are all the same.

I release used up energy like rivers or channels and then tap into a new or different spot and I pull in some of the fresh stuff.

Me  .  .  .  the universe,
we’re all the same.

We come from the gut of the first spit.

Victor Millan

Forever Peaceful

Everybody wants a piece of you. From the moment you cry out your nascent breath the leeching starts. The world begins to tear at you. To consume you.
To tag and watch you. To bleed you.
Taking with both hands as much as it can while slowly nibbling on you in a cancerous fashion. It even provides you with an usher for modest expedition.

I think it’d be cool to stay in the womb forever.
and attached to the universe.

Victor Millan


In my time the new age is born.
Space time and distortion;
frequency precise.

In the molecule,
inside the cell base I find my release under lock & key.
Behind the photon miss with the admirable tongue in cheek.
Sub rosa and the capsule prophecies
are of assist.

Quanta blue.
Quanta blue.

1997 – Sept. ‘99
Victor Millan

Tuesday, December 27, 2011


Coffee-House Trailmix Peoples Like The Benetton Ads But Not. Peoples Reading, Catching Up On Gossip, Killing Time, Drinking Something Warm, Doing School-work, Putting A Final Touch On The Poem To Be.
There’s A Line Waiting To Go Urinate The Anxiety Out Before The Show And There’s One Guy Standing Ahead Of Me Staring Sweaty Eyes At The Doorknob. Bathroom Satire On The Painted Walls Ease My Character When I Finally Get In. Scratched Mirrors Meet Worn Strangers- Mexican Blue Walls Shake My Drought. Hope My Tea’s Hot n Ready When I Get Out.
Piss On The Rim By Accident For A Little Good Luck And It Seems Like I’m Not The Only One In Need Of A Bit Of Fortune Tonight.
Microphone Stand Leaning To One Side Like A Lazy Bastard But Providing Much Needed Moral Support Hiding Nervous Hand Shaking Tells. Provocative College Girls Hanging W/The Usual Riff Raff.
Laying The Raff.

Lemon Tea
Or Was It Chamomile I Asked The Man In The Apron For?
I Forgot Already And My Ups Is Not Up Yet.
The Herbs - The Aromatic Herbs Chasing Most Of Our Embattled Nerves Away. You Gotta Love Them When They Serve You Up And Leave You To Guard The Stage Holding Your Gut And Soul For Everything You've Got. Meanwhile, The Stories Get Sold.

I Wrote A Poem On The Way Here But This Is Not It.
This Is Me Zoning Out The Ramblings Of A Poor Old Bastard Which Are Boring The Shit Out Of Me. So With Pen In Hand I Jot Some Ideas Down Ignoring His Old, Worn Out Voice And The Freezing Wind Blowing In Through The Left-Open Door.
Somebody Wuz Born In A Barn.

Bent Paperclips Bouncing   ~   Lost Behind The Cemetery   ~
Nasal Spray Addict  ~ Topogiggio  ~

Scale The Ladder And The Sweaty Fish   ~   Acid Bomb   ~   Popsicle Cell Anemia   ~ The Birth Of A New And Improved Politico Figure   ~  Money Politico  ~
Tired Honeybee   ~   Old Ideas Traded For Pocket Lint  ~
Petrified To The T, Mr.  ~

After A Couple Of Minutes Of Thinking I Was Something Special I Looked Up Through My Hair And My Ego And He Was Still Going On Aimlessly W/His Story.

I Know, Let’s Masturbate!

Victor Millan

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Bonzo Politics

Amend your loophole laws w/a sideswipe and a fix.
Burn the archives and rig a vote.

Wicked men with wicked sick vices are making their fortunes off our daily suffering.
Wicked men intoxicated with the illusion of power are ignoring the lives of others. Of you.
So called leaders stand tall and proud not giving a care about the hungry or hopeless indigent. Flag pin majestically pinned on their cologned chests trumpeting Americanism therefore legitimacy.

Politicians built with ideas of dominion smile artificially as if they’d done something good for the masses and then they mislead.
Only fools follow blindly to duplicitous words
and scripted political sound bites.

Our government burns
while the rapacious and well connected hold the cross of leadership and the swine do their bidding.

Aug. ‘92
Victor Millan