Friday, December 21, 2012


My bladder’s about to burst! its poisons from drinkin’ too much watermelon juice I picked up from one of those fancy juice bars earlier today. Would serve me right too for letting them rip me off @ the cash register, same as they do for your $4 or $5 coffees imported no doubt from some hard to get to exotic jungle. But they taste sooooo sugary sweet and bone depletingly good.
Oh man, gotta piss gotta piss but I didn’t come here to talk about this as I put the Kegels to the test. I came here because I miss you; your mournings and your laughters. My soul aches when I think of the weeks that rush by that I don’t sit down to write for whatever reasons and I just . . . age. Then, when I do start, Writers Block peeks in n blinds it all up til I give it the boot right in the ass and kick it to the curb with my old habits and shames.

My next door neighbor’s walking up the steps right now and we say “hello” every time we pass each other by. Yes I wanna do her but I don’t know if she’s got a girlfriend or not. KnowhatImean?
She looks like the clam eating type. I know, it sounds like an awful thing to say but seafood I don’t like. Pink Floyd I do.
What one’s got to do w/the other, I have no idea except that she’s blonde, in her mid-20’s and not necessarily all that great looking.
Go figure.
But why would one try to figure it out when it’s so natural.
So primal.
Opposites attracted to differences.
Go do what the animals do so beautifully. Go fuck!
Go fuck well but don’t throw the gear shift into Reverse when the car’s in motorDrive and don’t call someone else’s name out when you say you are true.


Feels good to empty the bladder. Get the watermelon juice out.
Feels good to be empty minded and waste a whole day lying in bed watching Star Trek: TNG reruns.
Feels good to smoke a bowl when my chores are all done and also when I’m the pig in the sty throwing lots with winded devils late arriving upon my shoulders.
Feels good when I touch myself like a master the way no one else can.
Feels good to go off on a writing spree and while I’m @ it, might as well smoke one now if not for the children then at least for a bit of peace in the Middle East.
Forget it.
Ain’t gonna happen. Peace I mean.
This is the beginning of the end.
How cliché. How empty and dramatic. The Beginning of the End.

Now, although I don’t subscribe to the prophecies of Armageddon that are printed in The Holy Bible or in Nostradamus’ obscure predictions of rulers, anti-Christs, or other shitheads raining hell, fire, and std’s down on earth;  I do believe in the Mayan calendar where it points out a cycle of life ending on December twenty  .  .  .  1st I believe. The year’s 2012.
That’s what some of the people that’ve studied their type of writing have said. And like I said, The Beginning of the End. From now til 2012. Maybe nothing will happen maybe some things will only shift, that’s all. Maybe our days and nights will keep on til there’s nothing more to inspire the dreamers and reclusive sages on their lonely roads. Til then who knows?
However when Hitler was a teenager.
When men began copulating with animals.
When humans with extreme wealth or inside connections claim Godly preference or status this is t.b.o.t.e. ~
The beginning of the end.
And speaking of Godly ~ To hell! with the Catholic Church.
Maladies to the moth infested, tilted head w/a crick, push-cart riding, god-dammed Pope John Paul George & Rin . . . just kidding  . . . I love the Beatles.
To hell with all organized religions. And if I offend you sheep then to hell with you too.
I just cannot see myself being led around from the nose by another human being in a costume with a nifty hat or caught up in their precepts & rituals when it comes time to my spirituality.
Some people need that crutch I guess.
I’d just rather be the wolf than the sheep and there are a lot of you out there.
Sheep I mean.
I see you.
Thinking you need a strange person to lead you in personal spiritual matters.
The sheep get taken from behind by slick men and then comes the dick disease. And then the deceased.
We all need a crutch I guess. Mine just happens to be herb. And I will never understand why alcohol is legal and marijuana ain’t. Well, I do understand but . . . I never will. The argument’s there but that’s for another page.
So I regress to about an hour n a half ago when I was sitting deep on my broken down sofa looking at the rolled up lint linting on itself right on my pajama pant legs. I was just sitting there, on pause. My eyes, glassy and defective were rolling back n forth between the lint and the television set which was turned OFF.
The equalizer on my stereo was slaving away its LED’s fascinating my easy going mind.
My brain felt burnt out and exhausted from my 8-5 bullshit doing me killer harm. Felt like a mossy stone was napping inside my head. Like all the electrodes and equations had been squeezed out of it in a press. And I imagined that this is what Keith Richards must feel like all the time.

My breath’s stinking badly from my crutch and my speakers are sexing Pink Floyd but there is no seafood involved.
Only Jesus was left unsaid.

I believe in Jesus but only as a man, much like David Blaine ~ an illusionist, a man who knew how to manipulate the elements and was a master of misdirection.
And maybe he knew some things about healing w/herbs too.

Now, if Jesus was just a street magician w/a big mouth talking a lot of shit about being the son of GOD and resurrecting so n so over there ~

Back then that kind a boast coulda scared a lot of people into maybe  .  .  .
crucifying his dumb ass.

Victor Millan

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Friday, December 7, 2012

December 7th

Damn Japanese got the jump on Pearl Harbor that day.
Lennon was murdered on the 8th and Morrison born on the same. Jesus got his holiday shortly thereafter. That’s what those nutty Christians say anyhow.

Today the war keeps on in Afghanistan with its killings and mounting tribulations and bit by little bit the whole country keeps on crumbling like dried up old shit. There’re no fountains or gardens or vineyards like the poets and grandparents spoke about. No overflowing cornucopias like they were told in their bedtime stories years ago. As a matter of fact no overflowing of anything except repression, tears, bullets, blood and death.
It’s a shame, really. They’re a beautiful people oppressed by the tyrannical hands of religion, ego and greed.
It’s a shame.
And I ask myself pretty much on a daily basis why can’t we and how can we remove our
“Representatives” from our government?
And if you’re thinking votes EHHHH think again.
They don’t speak for me and if you think they speak for you I’ve got one thing to say to You ~
Baaaa. Baaaaaa  aaa.
We are the majority. Just too poor to own our own broadcasting networks and news media and pharmaceutical companies, I guess.
The first two to tell the news like it really is and the latter to keep us drug happy and sane while passing new laws and trying not to become sick with greed and power like they are.
Fuck it. I don’t know that I know what the answer is.
I just know life sucks nowadays and it feels more like the Bible Belt South, 1963 instead of The Newstates of America, 2003.
If I didn’t know any better I’d say I was just the imported grease which keeps
the BIG wheels making their ca$h. Like Marley said, the BIG fish.
But let’s not forget grease is slippery and combustible. Backs could be broken and hypocritical BIG fish could be fried.

We are the majority.

But then I look around and I see people pissed off @ other people instead of camaraderie.
Neighbors suspiciously eyeballing each other up n down instead of keeping an eye on the well dressed, “shake my hand, vote for me and then kiss my ass” representative.  Excuse me, non-representative. But then again mad-dogging in L.A is normal as palm trees so no biggie until tomorrow although tomorrow has already come for Japan.
Right now my Friday’s done for the night and so am I. Time to turn in and hope I don’t catch the flu.

Something’s tickling my ear @ 1:44 in the a.m.

Victor Millan 

Thursday, November 29, 2012

A Steil

A Style.

How It Was Created In A Soupy Cauldron Stir W/The Stellars And The Dust
And The Complicated Spit.
And Observed With A Palpitating Intent From The Unraveling Galaxies Which Skirt Around
The N5umb39rs Bend.

They Check Us Out With Their Magnified Lupas.
Looking Through The Other Eyeball Down Direct To The Self And The Marrow ~ Yours ‘N Mine.
In Form And Overseeing They Seem.
Hangers-On For The Free Flow But Mostly The “Cool” Overflow They Are.
Yours ‘N Mine.

A Style.

How It Feeds On Itself And Creates The Neurotic Masses And Their Tropically Tanned $1,000 Whores.
Hail! To The Cigarette Case ~ The Cheap Spirit You Crave.
The Lioness Making The Swirl When She Looks Away ~ Oh! The Female Myrrh.
The Glance/Glans That Eternally Stands For Eros.
The Sweet Butterscotch That Is Vagina In The Porno-Copious Mix Of Bleached Techno-Pop And Clever Tongue Lashings.

% Clever Girl %

The Style.

Victor Millan 

Thursday, November 22, 2012

I Hate Turkey & Others

I can’t begin to describe how much I hate turkey. Especially that whole deal with the cadaver ~ carcass and all. So come Thanksgiving time I have honey-glazed ham whenever I can. Maybe a roast beef or prime rib w/rice pilaf and stuffing with some salads on the side. Mashed potatoes, grilled veggies, pasta salads.
Fruit salads. Potato/macaroni salads.
Bean salads. Greens. Slaws.
Salads salads but no turkey. No turkey!
I can’t get over the sight of that thing sitting there on that cutting board naked with no head and the neck skin lookin’ like thick white humiliated foreskin. Wet meat full of pluck holes. Turkey neck gizzards.

Save the bones for stock.

Fuck you!
I’m not keeping a bunch of dead bones in my fridge. I’m not Jeffrey Dahmer. You must be smoking crack. Filthy ass dog shit bird.
How about when you stuff that son of a bitch? It looks so perverse with an arm up its ass shoving bread crumbs and dried cranberries in it. Meanwhile your knuckles are shamelessly grinding around on its ribs.
By the way, milk sucks too.
So does fish and tofu in any of its creative manifestations.
Fried eel, Ceviche, horse mane and frog leg soup.
Tongue sandwich blt. Bacon lettuce tongue.
Myself, I prefer the sexual version.

Mondongo ~
what a crock o’ rubbery shit. So is cau-cau, menudo and abalone.
Oysters and calamari chewing me up a workout.
Bok choi
Kim chi
Wasabi sizzling tongue lessons for the non-milk drinker.

Turdunkin?! ~ now that one’s just looking for attention.
Caviar. Classy? Maybe.But sticky fish eggs nonetheless.
Oxtail soup smells like seasick oxstale fart.
Sheep’s milk, sheep’s head smoked. Goat cheese pizza. Rattlesnake skewers.
Moldy blue cheese
and ostrich burgers?!  ~  what are they thinking?
And of course
fuck shark steaks.

Chicken livers, especially when they’re surreptitiously hidden in one’s dinner plate!
My mom for one reason or another would slip me a chicken liver whenever she made arroz con pollo. She knew I hated them but she always had to hide a couple under my rice or something. I think maybe she secretly got some sick kick from watching me gag on the little nugget.

Blood sausage. Blood soup. Pig blood pudding.
Pickled eggs. Chicken fried squirrel.
Soy milk and haggis. Bbq quail.
Duck . . .
any greasy way you cook it.
Lobster. Butter or no, ‘cause I know there are some sick individuals out there that eat it w/ketchup.
Venison steaks. Bologna and croc sausage.
Curried goat?
Llama roast. Elk jerky and lion stew. Rocky Mountain oysters? Nope, nope, nope, nope.
Beaver chili ~ deep fried raccoon. Insect foods and rabbit casserole.
Pepper-crusted kangaroo loin.
Bear steaks? Gimme a break!

And what’s this squab shit I’ve been hearing about?
For Christ’s sake.

Nov. ‘98
Victor Millan

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The 4

Sandpaper landscape passing by under me – shaving memories off my eyes as I fly over a gritty, old and beautiful Arizona. Changing time zones when I get to Minnesota Park.
Outside my window it’s picturesque with the mesas, the flat tables and the cousin snakes meditating under rocks.
It’s camera worthy like the 4 presidents up on Rushmore laughing through pursed lips at the natives kept constantly numb in the rez or like the Statue of Liberty forgetting her roots on the 4th of  July, or the four horsemen of the apocalypse when finally it’s their moment to shine.

Sandpaper ground reaching out w/the dried out veins like the arms of God awkwardly holding the earth while she’s crying out for nothing except maybe a bit of rain. She does seem broken into a billion pieces I imagine by the fist of Kronus smashing down on my kitchen table as he hollers for a refill on his diet coke and another chicken taco on a soft shell.

Victor Millan

Saturday, November 10, 2012


Words by VM
Artwork by Eddy Millan
(Eddy used Prismacolor pencils and pen on paper.)
To see more of Eddy's artwork please visit

Sunday, October 28, 2012

The Rose

A single red rose was set aside especially for her.
 It stood out from thousands in the garden and was given
 as a symbol of my immortal love.

It was unique and beautiful
                       just as she was.

On the day of her death
 a single red rose was set aside and burned to ashes to our memories and to her gods.
 It was one in a breath of thousands but hers was the only light
 that gave me rhyme and gave me life.

It was unique and beautiful
                       just as she was.

Victor Millan

Sunday, October 14, 2012


Whenever words come out of his mouth his arms thrash and flail the air like severing bullwhips teaching the air how it feels to kiss the sharp breeze w/a dangerous tease.
He jumps up and down like a toad that has just lost his mind wording the stories he was told as a young child when the world was but memories old.
(The world it was hot and then it was cold.)
And the people lacking sunshine laugh at his only facade ~ the one that was perpetually sad.

Every once in a while he got a pain to his knees and he cried in the bathroom, sitting on the floor rubbing them until they felt well. And the other kids ran up and down the stairs but some of their deeds would never agree with what their parents taught them. He heard all the kids laughing in various degrees from their guiltiness and misdeeds.
And his world was old.
And his stories were bold that he told the likes of we.

My, Winston sure is gifted.

No one, not one heard a word he said but they were impressed with the frog and the arms and all they could see.
The pain to his knees commanding a kneel.
His various degrees ever surreal.

Victor Millan

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Pull a Jesus

When the word spills out it bursts like a cornucopian gold rush,
maddening to the infected & addicted brain and with a burning fever the crazy wheels keep turning it over mind to hand.
And you have to use it right there and then ‘cause when the energy dies
it dies.

One just has to hope that it'll pull a Jesus.
You know~

3rd day

that whole “coming back from the dead” deal.

December 25, 1998
Victor Millan

Friday, May 25, 2012


Where’s the boundary
 that separates our existence from
                                           the next?
Where’s that fine hairline
     between sagacity

This border, I believe rests deep
            within our minds.
It’s the one that keeps us on the cool side of sane
and hardly ever shows its many masks.

       It surfaces only when triggered or needed
to keep us from the shadowy jewels and the answers
that lay hidden
      behind the

Caress its lyrical tongue of wisdom with your inquisitive own.
Master its mystery, the bedlam and natural born deceit.
Her recurring faces with her cantations & rhymes
show the path to tomorrow’s
                             silver dream.
Reach out to touch this dream
and you’ll find yourself lost in mystical union
You will find yourself in a universe
with no boundaries.

Victor Millan

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Traits of Insertion

69 poems corkscrewed through my depraved head but in the meantime, in front of me,
these two chicks noisily finished eating each other’s peaches out
coming to a bring off in the arms of bursting spasms.

It was amazing.                     Both of them slithering around like sweaty
Romanian contortionists making an effort at perfection so they go again.
Beautiful teenage lovers trying to be.
One – a virgin porno star.
They just laid wet on my bed enjoying the animalistic way of
the fuck.

So I walked a bit closer and reacted in erection to their actions.
Letting them work their marvelous thing and then get comfortable just as they’d
and then I let them feel my tawdry love in a star spangled banner sort of way
                                     just as I’d expected.

The addicted young slut, the porno star, and the velvet cock  ~  in the end we all laid on the bed outta breath, calming down, seeing the light for the first time. And one of them reached over for the bullet and candied up her nose and kept the ferris wheel on a contagious round about roll.

 Helluva hellacious event!
 Doing the hokey pokey and slipping off the rubber sheets
 with a hand spank on her ass cheek.   .   .   .   I said.

Victor Millan

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Toothache in Church

How do I work-in the time when I was about 6 or seven years old and had a toothache on the right side of my mouth and that Sunday evening at church I kept complaining to my mom, who was sitting to my left, about my tooth but she kept telling me to be quiet and that church was almost over and to hold the pain until it was over. And she gave me that biting look that said I’m this close to pulling hairs and belting your ass. But I couldn’t hold the pain and I kept complaining until we had to stand up and walk out while the pastor was sermonizing and all the other good Christians were sitting down on their hard, wood pews paying attention to the word of God.

At one point on the drive home in the middle of being pissed off at me she confused me by angrily calling me El Diablo from her sanctimonious front seat. I don’t recall my dad saying a word.
And when we got home I got my ass exorcised w/a belt real good by my mom for making her leave early and embarrassing her in front of all of her hypocritical church friends.

Bunch ‘a creepy assholes.

Victor Millan 

Saturday, May 12, 2012

In My Wake

It’s kind of difficult to explain but I felt like a blanket of evil passing through the city.
Thick like an English fog ~ leaving a cancer LSD in my wake.
The counselors and the men were upset because I tampered with their moral and preordained values. But the women rejoiced w/the flares and the dance because I tampered with each and every one of them.
They wrote songs and rang carnival bells
and then  .  .  . their sorcery suffered my soul.

Victor Millan

Friday, May 11, 2012


When I work I meditate.
When I orgasm I feel holy.
When I eat I stimulate.
What I absorb I integrate
and when I die I’ll try to remember  .  .  .

to hold my breath
on the way



August 11, 1999
Victor Millan

Saturday, May 5, 2012


Mescaline eye drops free-falling to a fat splash on the flying iris. 2-clicks in each one to send me searching for the perfect storm while it dreams of ruin. The piercing burn at the back of my eyeballs. The fibrous nerves and tentacles waving, going nowhere ~ gone numb.
Mental masturbation sometimes in repetition, the unsafe way ~ the ones that don’t know say.
The skipping of brains on solitary ponds and then a sit down on the moss with my tired regrets hanging in the cold moonlight listening for the plan so they should kick in and not be left out in the frost.
Specters hiding behind cast stones cast lots along the way with my dirty coin not minding the gamble I was taking with time for the sake of she.
Religious symbols weave their way around my drunken head but not well imbibed they are; eating away at my life fulfilling prophecies carelessly divined.

Numerous voices whisper in the dark ~ Cast it out

I go to the sliding mirror and with broken reason staring back at me I walk through the silver sheath throwing jubilations up in the air at a quiet day; the kind you only read about on the palm of a wounded hand. And you were there waiting for me as always wearing your moods. The happy rearranging of my drugged out DNA has me looking over your shoulder because I never trust; so again I fly with the million eyes looking through your mirrors and smoke. Depth was non-existent for that one breath I held and there I was . . . existing without my honor.

Fog was sifting in and out of the mausoleum going nowhere ever breathing its purpose to the tongue-tied masses. Blood curdling screams fractured the heavy night shattering meditating souls’ dreams falling their prayers to be lost in wandering streams. Ghostly energies scavenged about waiting to take my life at the first chance of a guard let-down. The taste of blood was permanently kissed on their undying lips.
Time to break open the chapters and the craters in your mind and trip elsewhere. Anywhere but here. Step into a whirlpool of emptiness, of perdition and disappear in search of new friends & new frontiers.
In the meantime,
grasp at anything that’ll save your life or maybe destroy it w/a tempered blow.

The rivers of time are drying up fast.
A drought is coming to Menae.

July 1992
Victor Millan

Thursday, April 26, 2012


'99 - '12
Words by VM
Artwork by Eddy Millan
(Eddy used Photoshop in creating this image.)
To see more of Eddy's artwork please visit

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Saturday Morning

Right after waking up even before breakfast he yells at her trying to be intimidating calling her a stupid piece of shit. A worthless imbecile of a female ~ and she roars back with the spirit of a lion until the bedroom windows rattle with terror and slam shut. Until spittle flies out of her mouth and her fangs tell you “I’m gonna kill that smirk off your fucking face you smug son-of-a-bitch.”
 And they look at each other like ~ why do I love you?

Ugly ass hateful people.
They should both be locked up alone in a room one last time and allowed to kill their goddamn selves.

 She used to tolerate him once in a while. Once they say, she even loved him.
Ire doesn’t come around too often
but when it does  .  .  .

’96 – ‘97
Victor Millan

Friday, April 13, 2012

Witch's Brew

Witch's Brew
Words by VM
Artwork by Eddy Millan
(Eddy used Prismacolors, coffee soaking, fire and blood in creating
this aged parchment paper look.)

To see more of Eddy's artwork please visit

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Dancing Crackhead

Many times I’ve tried to kill this sexual face of mine but fell mad in love once again.
Yet again ~
I was attracted to myself, me, and the I and no one else.

Dancing in the mirror – doing a spin ~ rock posters on the walls.
Oh man, a little a ‘dis smoke helps me play it so cool
like a bit of the ding dong ding loving his Chinese poon tang Ming
and, hey jack!  ~ I know you know what I mean.

Rock posters on the wall
Loving rock cocaiine.
Go-Go dancing in my brain cocaine.
One day I know they’ll let me in the fiends
Hall of Fame.

And I looked back at my haunting reflection with a razor sharp gleam. A crackhead chopper razor gleam. Checking out my scraggly beard and tempestuous face scaring the ghosts taking pleasure notes behind me ~
I was mostly thinking about a way to take a large chunk of the pie without stuttering through my lines. This so-called American dream baby’s been sold on and I keep eyeballing from my place deep in the warm quicksand.

And I kept on dancing – getting myself unbuckled.
Feeling the good mood and the compulsory hornytoads running the energy up n down the broken stem. Feeling like my head was navigating swimmingly through the aggravation – I thought I had it under control but then the fading daylight reminded me of the smell that had me hooked and it left me turned off with disappointment.
The ceiling fan was still spinning in synch with the record album ~ 33 lp
and I thought about chopping up that last precious little rock, but not in Arkansas!, and burning it up to hell in a resined drug sacrifice ~ the sweet smoke.

Some nights I had to eat swill and feasted with the swine ~
all the while laying in my waste wishing to be cleansed with vinegar
and wine.

Victor Millan

Sunday, April 1, 2012


The rewarding pleasures of writing have been set aside for lesser gods.

It’s just a brief moment in the blistering sand burning hot like the new Venus on descent.
And then, the mask is burned forever
In the sadistically fevered sun.

I wish I knew the combination,
I wish I was already there.

‘92? ~ ‘95?
Victor Millan

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Three Brothers Rock

Timeless emotion on the faces of the three brothers rock. Faithful keepers of the painted
cloth and the book of myths.
Winter desert gales centuries old shaped their stoical faces into the mold and stone decay
they commandingly portray.
The winds ~
it was the winds that made them happen.

From several miles above ~
the others exist alone in the middle of absolutely nothing but control everything around
them. Eyes like a knife on the universe
they mumble the electrodes back and forth between minds.

The Sun And Moon
Keep Their Struggle In The Sky,
But When They Sex The Tempest ~
They Draw Me In. *

They wait for one to come and unravel the scrolls and feed their platinum eyes.
They wait for one to come and decipher the paint and tell the tale.
Centuries old  ~  the myths

and the paint.

Jan. 13, ‘98 – Mar. 6, ‘00
Victor Millan
*(the sun and moon keep their struggle in the sky, but when they sex the tempest ~ they draw me in)

Artwork by Eddy Millan
To see more of Eddy's art please visit

Thursday, March 22, 2012


An erection from mud to flesh.
Some call it God ~ I call it evolution.
We never agree.

I love the thinkers’ meltdown.

Victor Millan

Sunday, March 18, 2012

The Ultimate Youth

The ultimate youth ~ invincible and strong. To our causes we are constant and true.
Let our voices be heard by all ‘kind everywhere. In our lands we’ll make the social changes to keep the even flow.
Rise to the streets my friends. Expunge the greedy boars in power.
Feel the hunger in your souls; hear the call to take the world.

Shout your feelings of aggression.

The battleground’s been forever set.
The challenge we’ve met ~ firm and steely eyed; true face with our morals reflecting in our actions.
Never surrender ~ everything and the sphere’s ours to take back from the profane before they set it to burn.

Accept life not as it’s handed to you,
but how you’d have it be.

Sep. ‘92
Victor Millan

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Leaving the Party

I was quite drunk and standing outside the front door of Karen’s 1st floor apt.
at about 2:30 am.  Everyone else was inside playing a “drunk game” laughing loudly and throwing curses at their gods.
I was standing there swaying because of the sucking ~ talkin’ art talk with Ed who was also sucking. Madness of the drunkards I guess.
We were cracking up at some of the people mixin’ it up inside. Also laughing at the nosey neighbor spy that poorly spied. Mocking the hidden shooshers behind their 2nd story apartment windows.

I didn’t give a fuck.
I didn’t know them.
I didn’t wanna know them. Right now I was having a good time leaning up against the building trying to keep myself from melting down into the sidewalk.
Keeping my fingers and my eyes crossed for good luck so’s that I wouldn’t throw up on the spot. And we wondered when our chicks would be ready to leave.

After a short while my friend’s door swung open and w/a bit of the living room light and her music, two girls strolled outta the pad but not ours. They were leaving the party and going home.
One of ‘em pinched my ass when she walked by and said
“See ya later heartbreaker.”

Ya sure.  No problems.

And they drove off.
And I told Ed how she had mental problems she was trying to dig herself out of and he laughed but I didn’t and the 2nd story meddler wondered when will it all end? ~ Eventually we finished our drinks and went back inside for the photo finish.

About an hour later I was in my own bathroom sitting on the cold linoleum floor feeling sea sick, sweating profusely and taking a break n a breather from vomiting my dinner & guts out into the toilet.
I noticed some of it missed the mark and hit the floor ~
and then came the dry heaves in the killer ribs with my fingers locked in a hard clench holding the edge of the tub and the sink.

Death was off to the side tickling the funeral keys with my heart while I was toading and struggling for a miserly clean breath.

Oct. ‘98
Victor Millan

Saturday, March 3, 2012


I was thinking today about how when I meditate to find peace or protection or answers; or as an act of gratitude - how it is similar to religious prayer.
Although I don’t believe in the organized part of religions, I do think there are similarities in the way we connect with the Energy when we meditate or pray.

True religiosos transport into a trance, into this womb and they hover in there mystically flooded w/Energy, meditating as I do.
Taking in the purity ~ leaving the negative behind.
Finding infinite clarity.
Feeling the serene heartbeats.
Chanting or humming or speaking it, or seeing the mantra as I do. Listening to the measured breathing ~ channeling with It as I do.
Tapping into the temple of the thing that makes us mad.

To me these things are what we all do the same when we pray or meditate.

Allah, God, Brahma, Energy.

S’all the same.

Victor Millan

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Puppet Me

At ghost time when whispers are sweeping dreams into webs, the puppet sits slumped on the smoky grey couch flipping through the faded edge pages of an old photo album. His eyes are skimming unfinished memories & secrets but a bit of thirst is burning on the tip of my fantasizing tongue.

Went back in time to that cold night in Hunt’s backyard when everyone was destroyed n drunk and that guy wore his cowboy hat while my friend played the drums and the noise all by herself. This was in the much warmer garage and then someone took a picture of Beck, Les, Karen n Me sitting outside.
Ed proudly showed us his inclinations emblazoned on his chest and Llerena’s mind was corruptedly gone.

Reaching for a beer now - maybe a roaming thought or a conclusion to be.
I’m judging it’s time to call it a day by the sounds of dawn leaning away from a night already in repose.

Imitations & innocence
Inventions & disguise.

Victor Millan

Saturday, February 25, 2012

The Grand Ball

The Ghost turned host for an evening or two.
Charlatan and Harlequin were there; also the dealer of fate,

Pirouette looked swell in leather . . . and immortal in sperm.

Victor Millan

Monday, February 20, 2012

Faces of the Son

I Love To Write.

Even When I'm In A Comfortable Dream Mendicating With The Beggars I Conjure Up The Words That Make The World Swing With An “Every Man” Tycoon Class.
I Love To Write About My Sexual Fantasies And The Casual Joys That Have Me Kissing The Planets In Gratitude And Celebration.

On The Summer Porch With A Cold Beer Quenching The Whip ~ On My Sofa With A Burning Joint Parting My Lips. With My Snakes Making A Dance In The Gritty Sand
And The Sunset Going Down On Venice,
I Love To Write The Faces Of The Son.

Pornography And Poetry Always Seem To Boost My Ego When The Pressure Becomes Too Real.
Either Composition Works.
They Go Hand In Hand Fueling Each Other. At Least They Do For Me.
They Feed Me So I Write
And I Express.

I Love To Write ~

Crazy About The Pale Goddess ~ Forbidden - Ever-present – Charming Til The Song Of The Swan. Forever The Moon She Is, Her Incantations & Rhymes Evanescing To The Big E Weaving Solutions To My Tribulations.

I Love To Write About The Galaxy Lover Taking A Sweet Chance And The Sex Action That Goes Down South Like A Masterpiece Making It Scream.
The Beige House On Venice's Where It Started And Cannabis Was Key In Igniting It.

I'll Never Forget That Little Place Or The Great Industrial Civilization
That Followed It.

1995 – 6.11
Victor Millan

Saturday, February 18, 2012

Time’s Killing You

I was laying cross-ways on my bed in my white boxers one end of week morning feeling
Over run; taking a deep breath w/my head reeling madly and slightly over the edge.
Over the edge of the bed as well.
The ceiling fan was on the spin cycle racing the devil with my eyes trying to shake loose
That ghost and its complications off its weary brown fins; and I exhaustedly let go of my next
Breath and everything was suddenly still w/the exception of the heavy pulsing in my veins.
Everything was frozen in motion.

The city was quiet for a moment. Everyone’s confessions held with my exhale.
Everyone was caught in a mid-blink in the middle of their burdens or their passions that devotedly Kill. The Birds were hovering outside en route to where they will w/a warm autumn breeze holding Their calibrated dive and I threw the currents to my god ~
And I craniated.

“How will you make your millions young man?
 How will you make it?”

Beware! says my witch ~

Time’s killing you
And the clock is on time’s side.

Victor Millan

Saturday, January 21, 2012


A pretty girl is like a harmony of sounds keeping the fire alive @ night.

Like a disco ball superstar spinning in a fusion of chemistry and rhyme. Flower buds coming alive in 1979
Like the dancing Sativa, the constellations reborn, and the sometimes wise vintage wine.
Like the unforgettable taste of love Spring only knows to give in abundance
when it electrifies.
Like the erotic poetica the muse weaves from unfinished threads and leaves carelessly scattered about within the petals on your bed
and the sun spotted sheets.

A pretty girl is like sunshine for the ages
and a breath of life for the one she decides upon.

Jul. 31, ‘99
Victor Millan

Saturday, January 14, 2012


Me and some friends drove into a small town in northern New Mexico but the action soon became rotten sour so we left; and on the way out we stopped for lunch and ate at a little restaurant known as Casa de Cruzes.

We walked in and right away we could tell Jesus was checkin’ it out. This place I mean.
Crosses were hanging on all the walls.
The ceiling alone had about fifteen of them kinda sprawled out,
nailed down.
How ironic, I thought.

I especially remember this one that had a long, sad Jesus face to it but our food came and I saw that it was good and I ate of it.
As I chewed I looked around and realized that I’d never seen so many goddam crosses in one place
not even church.
I guess someone wanted to make real sure this place was securely blessed ~

holy like.

There was the velvet Jesus ~ Unlikely superstar but always the King.
Paintings of crosses ~ Local artists giving St. Peter the sleazy wink.
Twisted metal crosses gracing the masticating I.
Chandeliers and the hung Christ giving up face n flesh
Day and night.

Crosses in your face. Burrito on the table.

Lunch was divine but the hills were burnt charcoal black.
Hot sopapillas & honey for dessert.

Taos, NM. ‘95/‘96 – 6/11
Victor Millan