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