Pigs o’ Politics

The world begins and the world shuts down and dies again but the pigs of politics do not end it from their corrupt perch or anywhere else they might dare to heave their dirty pulse. They thrive in excess by manipulating their own kin and labor their whole lives making coin and perfecting both the art of mangled loyalty and the art of the perfected backstab.

These pigs are always stroking erect and in focus quenching to a drown their immoral thirst.

  

They are unethical profiteers damned until death by their adulterous shortsightedness.

They’re leaders only in name to a world of whimsy and anger and half-dumb, self-centered, tv-dinner fools.

It’s all an unnatural process

in a natural world.

Victor Millan

Rumsfeld / Saddam
The Handshake

American Soul Divine

How sweet you are American soul divine.

Immoral and sinful in every imaginable way as you safely hang from your corrupted web.

Your glass jaw’s clenched down to the vein like a greedy masturbator and I rush to shatter it with

my ravenous and worn out fists.

A hypocritical smile for everyone you mask up.  Handshake~money exchange~billions raked in profit. Business celebrations ~ juggernauts flaunting their hubris forcefully erect over caviar pearl and morning champagne.

I see your eyes ~ they never deceive your acquisitive motives and the others' demise.

American soul divine

your mother’s milk has aged and soured to your children’s taste.

Poor man’s meal waits for digging out when the pangs are unbearable and dignity a disposable veneer.

Trashcan dinner cold and low while the affluent walk past

                                          with blinders on.

Wrapped in a constant scheme ~ your tongue masterfully betrays.

  

As a word is forgotten and a love indiscreetly betrayed so your children suffer and our struggle remains.

How bittersweet you are American soul divine.

Victor Millan

Emperor

And there it was ~

I found my soul wandering alone through the ruins of the lost city wondering what’d happened to everything he knew. And it was me returning to my birthplace; a sort of homecoming to the highlands and the cold mountains breathing further and higher than my eyes will ever find. Back to the homegrown leaf and the earth she fell in love with.

And she changed like a dream and there I saw myself in the body of another man adorned in fine, colorful clothes and indigo gold. Also a scepter or a staff and a dark feathered headdress ~ reminders of prophecies when she spoke of collective lineage and a moment in time.

I saw in front of me the leader of a people ~ all so beautiful and proud. I felt the breeze running through my hair shaking the old ghosts uncomfortably out of joint,

Flying the Good Time

Thunder crashes for miles outside w/the rest of the world shaking the ground to her uncertain roots and I’m on my sofa lost in sober thought; sitting warm having an early smoke with my morning tea and they both give me the tranquility and the moment I need. I’m a worshipping herbalist thru ‘n thru.

Playing w/the crafty witch overnight, her scents, and her magical spells. Love to my goddess divine, hopeless romantic in her dance ~ her rhymes and my waking 3^rd eye.

Sliding in and out of this lifestyle but only when I’m penning it down like a madman w/a weapon carving up a willing page with my heart on. Come around to the live mosaic of thoughts screaming to her city a breath of sin. Come around to the fractals and the music, maybe the lounge muzak too.

Living with the curious faces pushing out through my crowded tv screen with a snow storm influence. Faces holding each other back while reaching for the common aqualung. Electro-sharp from the abandoned plug and one of them changed the channel on me.

(click-click)

Brief sanctuary is never sufficient no matter what they tell you. It disappears as quickly as your candid youth.

Sittin’ here enjoying the free shift on my knob and the wicked tiptoes that dance ninja style across the phone wire shaking raindrops loose for the next barrage of sinful hopes.

Flying the good time as always and doing the other in a clandestine manner with the gamey smell of the condor making its way out like a poison to a frantic schnoz.

Grand egress is the American way.

Victor Millan

Endless Love

Summer dawned with its capital radiance and sexual magnetism.

Our lives were brought together by mere chance. A throw of the fates.

One from one side of the world.

And she  .  .  .  from the other.

Think back to when we were young and indomitable and the world as unhinged and magnificent as it was, belonged to us.

You expressed your burning passion for me w/every mesmerizing look. With every perfumed touch. W/my breaths caught in sighs by your faithful kisses.

My love for you was undying.

Later days and later songs the bouquet was gambled away and the gods showed

that we’d be together forever.

            Winter creeped in with ruthless depression. Unforgiving and cold.

            Abandon your memories and the years.

            She’s now gone. I feel lonely and dismal.

            There’ll never be another one like you.

In my old age I think back and I know that I’ve lived a full life. I know that my affairs are settled. Soon enough I will join my one and only love.

I lay in heartbreak as I near this death. Pain not in my body but in my aged soul for I know I’ll have to make this journey alone; without my beloved.

We’ll soon meet again my goddess ~ my life.

My one

and only love.  

- Victor Millan

To The Gutter

Rabid jealousy death bed keeps hammering the laughing knives deep into my cold and breaking heart. Feeling disheveled and I’m drowning in my feelings as they quickly become unharnessed.

Raging insomniac I get covered in my own vitriol ~ gnawing psychotic thinking about killing through the mocking night.

I wanna destroy the world

but you mean the world to me.

Endless love falls to the gutter.

- Victor Millan

Hey Italiano!

(This is a letter I wrote in March 2005 to my friend Giacomo who lives in Italy. I liked it so much that I gave it a title and here it is.)

Hey man, quick question.

Have you gotten the 2 emails I sent you from work?

Just curious.

Just a little bit stoned but not like in the Middle East.

Just living it.

My life.

Loving it but not like MacDonalds.

Don’t want no Big Mac Heart Attack.

Gotta leave the mark of the pen.

Like Zorro but with a V.

No VD on this Peniliticus. No tricks for the victor.

No words to carry on conversations.

No sadness. No tears. No gout.

Only fog, a dinged up surfboard and waiting for waves.

The early days before the cocaine phase.

See what happens when cannabis is king?

I go off and write like Jesus Christ Porno Star.

Broken down Pope shouldering atrocities driving in his glass-mobile car.

Who says "blasphemy"?

Michael Jackson.

Who touched Macauley Caulkin?

Michael Jackson.

Who's whiter than my euphoric Snow White?

Michael Jackson.

Why's the world turning in a negative spin?

Not Mikey's fault.

A species lives for about a 100,000 years they say.

When's our time up?

Comeuppance motherfucker!

The Mayan calendar says 2012. 

Does Kim Jong Il agree with that?

Who's got big enough balls to drop the Nuke and then wait for the payback?

Not I said the fly . . . and then the swatter came down.

The hand of god like a hammer.

The hand of Vic like a fire.

Like the Condor not the Phoenix.

The Pornographer in transit.

The sputum in your rectum. ~ Sounds German to the Peruvian.

Adrenaline rush like Steve McQueen jumping a motorcycle over a fence in The Great Escape.

A sentence too long like death by an Abu Musab decapitation.

A wife to beat for the half men.

A world to transform for the brown man.

And with that said I'm gonna go transform some leaf into smoke.

Be cool Italiano.

- Victor Millan