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