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.

1994
Victor Millan 

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.

Sardines.

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

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 4^th 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.

12.24.99 
Victor Millan

Soul

Soul

1993

Words by VM

Artwork by Eddy Millan
(Eddy used Prismacolor pencils and pen on paper.)

To see more of Eddy's artwork please visit http://www.semigod.com/