Those Days

Curse these days.

Curse me and my unpleasant company.

My complacency.

Damn my ignorance.

2.13.08

Victor Millan

About Eric

I don’t know why you keep contact w/this guy.

Why you let him breathe on you. Manipulate you.

Obstruct you. Break you.

Why you let him touch your body the way no one should.

He’s nothing. Not even dirt. At least good things can grow from dirt. With him, you plant a seed and his cancer immediately overtakes and infects you.

His tweaked out pornomania might be enticing and hot for a good laugh or a quick erection, but what more can he give you except a faceful of shit during his paranoid crack sessions. Did I say shit? I meant a faceful of fist.

Look inside yourself. I mean really look at the angels of your guard and tell me why you wasted even 2 seconds on this waste of skin.

Why you didn’t kill his fat ass when you had the chance.

You should’ve  .  .  .  ahhh forget it. You don’t listen anyhow.

Victor Millan

Ultravox Netherworld

Watching master television w/lingering allurement triggers a hungry static that brings a steady growth to the Sunda moss and the thick, rubbery channels networking my brain.

An electric charge bridging mirrors and defining my realities ~

And I sink in.

Sink deep within myself to the maddening majesties of the hypnotic snow and the constant background noise.

The voice.

The noise so unapologetically cracking; capturing the bits of psyche left-over from the echoes of my waking dreams.

And I sink deep. Deeper than my hidden sins and she says . . .

Welcome my friend,

Teevee retreat for king, yes

Tv retreat my friend

Tv re-treat you stay.

And I thought about her sweet madness intoxicating the insides of my bones. One last time I thought about her calming solitude and this netherworld which I guess I’ll have to call home.

My home.

1994
Victor Millan 

Farewell Tumi

Hypnotic waters run free within my essence picking up speed and the hair of the witch along the way to the dark, cold mouth kissing an ever-anxious death on the teeth. Rampant within my veins they rush, crashing against my jagged anger and making nothing of it. Swept along by the ankles, I drown in their racing currents as my body ultimately surrenders to a dismal and moribund highway.

And then come the chilling sensations of the last moments of life.

Awake!

Now awake your haunting lives for a glimpse of the past.

Pour the sweet wine in my chalice so I’ll never be late when you call. I love you love me but misery has other plans for the energies of we.

A young queen of the Nile contemplates suicide while the others sing to her life and bargained gods anew.

My love has departed to her thousand lifetimes; exhausted and missing my keep, I follow in suit.

Look to the heavens through a pleading blindfold and petition forgiveness from the Righteous One. A last prayer precedes the targeted gunshots ~ fusillade breaking the air and finding sweet amen. My head slumps, the urine trickles, and the accordions play their heavy notes for my names under a sunlight no longer mine.

River India

The night knows all of our indiscreet sins.

It watched us while we danced naked and spinning drunk in the honeycombs of the moonlight’s sweet pride.

I see you through my dual mm. eye.

You cannot hide.

I know your exhausting sins and I crave your appetite for lust.

Break the silence with your screams of delight.

Cover your nakedness with mine.

I am everywhere.

10/92 
Victor Millan

Août ‘99

Not too often, but sometimes I reach the lower heights of melancholia

hoping to linger just long enough to catch a buzz ennui.

And then I plunge back down to hell and I try to make the best of it.

And I exist.

But for the most part

I live to suffer.

Aug. '99

Victor Millan

Me and Them

I feel obese and uncomfortably bloated. Also a bit indignant and resentful.

Out of shape. Out of touch. Outta cool. Much too weak for competition ~ the way the bulls do it.

I feel like a loose, fat, blubbery side of tit. Like an oily waste of skin.

Something I don’t wanna be.

Double-chinned and wasted.

Outdated.

Outlasted.

So unlike me.

Too lazy or too tired to work out.

I feel let down ~ Out in the gutter.

In the middle of my sloth period. The Bluebird at his darkest.

I don’t even feel like writing this bullshit.

I don’t wanna do anything except dull my mind, overeat and go to bed w/out brushing my crooked teeth. Stay under the sheets all day long w/my farts and my sock lint and do absolutely nothing while the world has its way with me.

Waste my time like everyone else does but waste it my way.

This!

This apathy. This shit mood.

This is what they do to me.

This is what I need?

Fuck! people.

Fuck! her.

We’ll touch on her later, right now I feel looked over and past due.

In the wrong place @ the wrong time w/the right skill ~

June

Man, this is the pits. The worst of bad lucks is kicking my ass this month.

Bad luck on my car. The Beast. Piece a shit won’t start.

Fast American steel from a nineteen seventy-two brew piece a shit to you . . . when it starts. By the way, are all mechanics colluding thieves? Sure seems like it.

Bad luck on Chris’s car too. Hit ‘n run runners, if caught, should be left at the mercy of the been hit.

Bad luck on my taxes.

Immoral IRS money takers suffocators heart-attackers. Granted I like the fact that my trash doesn’t collect more trash behind my home. And I also like it that I have a flushing toilet, I can call 911, I have electricity/power,

paved roads, blah, blah, blah  ~  but,

I still wouldn’t mind helping out the gene pool by castrating and defecating

on a few of these number crunching government payroll crooks. Never forget, it’s the illusion of democracy.

Bad luck on my presumptuous back. Thinking it was young like in ’85 when I could carry the weight of the

Enigmas

Women are such beautiful enigmas and I find myself @ a loss for words after thinking about her.

Her  .  .  .

I wonder if she’s masturbated to the thought of us sexing the lightning out of the energy we spin. Too bad I can’t ask her ~

for obvious reasons of course  .  .  .  and neveryoumind.

Time to switch gears n’ go be worthless for a while.

Maybe think about her the rest of the night while I’m trying to kick this needling confusion outta my head.

9.27.01
Victor Millan 

Dead in Pearls

The solemn griffin. The baroness dead in pearls.

The witch w/the hands that shape the winds.

It’s all the same.

Poetry macabre in the end.


5.13
Victor Millan

Glamour Girls

Glamour girls dance their vaginal best and they get so curvy down when the hand is full of cash and their breasts are being slaved on and caressed.

Rum and Raven understand what my deal is and I get turned on by their phreak-on vibrations; but baby dolls don’t wanna get left out of the rhythm and sweaty grind either so they shout it up out of control and they love me through the heartbeat and my cold soul. Man, what a scene of perversion and wrongs. In my bathroom – gunning it on the sink shaking pictures breaking sounds. In the balcony with a green bandanna making it easy for Rum t’see the sky bracing for her screams. In the style of the dogs. In the gutters of my mind. In her salty meat that told me she was prime time 1969 as we went for that last rainy mile fortifying the loaded roars of thunder glassing up our pouring night.

And I pushed that final button best as I could and spent the evening my way.

Later hours as I was stepping out I looked in my floor mirror to confess my regrets and saw the feathers passed out in her sinful hands – the cabs were going by outside on their cold, secret roads to Crosstown and I flagged the odd one down and got in the backseat. I was addicted to their wine; the rain had stopped long enough for me to sit back in my seat and take note of the pulse and again pretend my memories of perfumed slaves and angels and the evils we’d done had not skinned another layer of my thin self.

5.13
Victor Millan

With My Back to the Stars

After the last pulsing thrust. In my shining moment with my head in the sky, in mid-orgasm, I felt her cloudy eyes washing over the length of my brown chest down to my sweaty line. The entire performance was quite inviting and delightfully lewd.

But at one point her eyes drifted away for a split second and that’s when I penetrated her castle walls.

In the process I said ~

“Lady of the marble face,

 forgive my thrust-worthy intrusion but your tulips are exceptional and mouthwatering.”

She just winked at me ~ and the orgasm returned.

in the evening too

with my back to the stars

i sometimes think back and see that her timing

couldn't have been better.

1995
Victor Millan 

Hades' Meadows

No such thing as afterlife
only that leprous odor of the afterdeath.

The two polar felons clash like the star detonating it one last time before the bang.

She takes advantage of his daze and short sightedness and throws him face first into the

body waste and the red earth.

The queen of Hades disrupts time with her catacomb eyes shifting her cold undecided hands and sends me to the house of torment for a spell. Hell for short and she tells me it’s for my own good.

Thrown in like a bare knuckle pugilist done for the night. Inside hell’s desiccated womb.

Hitting bottom face down, right there with the hot steamy shit. Her left heel pins my neck deep in the saucy dirt so’s I could not break free and she puts her hairy palms over my ears and listens to my calamities ~ and she sees what I mean.

Her eyes penetrate my soul stabbing the sky out of the blue,

shredding it to gray as they search for the virtue that I once wore.

And I look around once more. For old times sake.

Piles of flesh decomposing. Some whole others not but all of them moving or slithering; trying to get to the next carcass so they’d be up on things. A step up.

Overflowing rivers of blood refuse keep running and the stench of it all adheres like resin to my skin it seems. Pain and suffering echoes from all around.

Imps run and track the walls of the cavernous underworld with something that can only be described as an evil elegance. Clawing, digging into the rock. Breaking it off as they jump about. Taking care of malevolent things little evil fuckers gotta take care of.

Human sacrifices are burned alive but their skin never melts and they burn,

baby burn ~

Dirty Harry

So I drove to Westwood today to get some therapy done on my broken down wrist.

Second visit ~ 2^nd time I almost got in a car accident.

Tires screeching under the Beast making a scene and I could feel about 20,000 eyeballs eyeballing me and some in the crowd roared and they whistled. Adrenaline sweating from my pale knuckles. Heart and ghost each ready w/a foot out the door.

You could smell the smoked rubber permeating the air.

She waves and mouths “Sorry”.

I mouth “Fuck off”.

Careless cunt!

I ought a kick you in your . . .

L.A. drivers  .  .  .  you kinda wanna smack em’ across the head with the large, flat palm of your hand ~

Clint Eastwood style.

Sept. 14, 2000 
Victor Millan

Negative Energy

It’s got me spooked off my heels.

It’s the goose bumps on my cheeks. On my arms.

The blood tingles. The pin pricks jumping under my skin.

The feeling someone’s there but no one is.

Like right now there’s a tingle on my neck or is it a loose thread off my t-shirt?

A swipe at my sense of center keeps me discomposed.

This empty house. A negative stir. Desperation to kill for.

I stutter when I type or is it the caffeine in my eyes?

On my tongue.

Someone let a bug in the house!

Gotta kill the devil. The white devil. Ho! How’d that slip out?

Maybe not a devil say the neighbors across the stairs but a lonesome imp I agree.

A playful son of a bitch running around in my home laying down a bogus shadow.

(Don’t get angry with me ~ I write what it is.)

This is what I felt when I hit the first key and when this . . . thing was slapping me insane.

Now . . . dissipation. It’s gone . . . and the air feels like it was never there. Again, an empty house but it feels different this time. More at ease. Maybe it was just a running phase.

Great timing too ‘cause my woman just got home.

9.21.05 
Victor Millan

@NDREW WHO?

Big full moon rising supersonic fast leaving your desiccated stomach hung low on the ground in the middle of the little big custard horn.

Rising t’rrifically drunk w/the Mexican chivas revolutionaries and their shiny well-groomed satellites skimming a desperate whistle for the quick payola and a Castro cigar.

Now me,

going full outta sight to fill up a hollow scoop in near space where I can be alone for a while. Where I can hover in pagan magnitude inside a yellow t-cup w/a fastened vibration and a Tommy Lee drum solo.

@

Orbiting hawkeye of the goddess Diamonijk in synchronous line w/the #2 pencil axis made of wrinkled faux teak. In line w/the bent nickels n dirty dimes scratching the Cadillac paint off an elated 90° compass wink.

Directing the cosmonauts w/an abandoned horizon on their melodramatic way out

their sobering and lonesome hatches.

Giving them sample size freebies of Kazakh vodka so they’ll have fresh stories to rehash

w/1st morning’s

bad breath

blink.

Black market cigarettes.

Cough kopf.

@

Orbiting within spitting range of the rose garden neighborettes tanning naked for the ca$hola and the petrified llamas imitating the Peruvian spit.

Hawkeye on the Gemini custard like I know nemesis does to me.

Hawkeye oxygen frozen to the marvelous stare

and the art form T  .  .  .

2000 
Victor Millan

Fart Mines

The gaseous rush.

The rotten, sulfurous-egg pucker burner.

The secret farts left hanging behind in camouflage pockets like potent mines laying in wait to swallow up some poor unfortunate tit as he walks by with his beat on and inhales them and forces his throat to gag.

My dad was one of these sick fuckers that would silently lay fart mines in supermarket aisles, especially the freezer section, (so they’ll keep)

and said,

Whoever sniffed it probably deserved it.

And that’s that.

That’s that.

You know, I’ve always questioned the logic behind that statement but,

what the fuck. I thought the shit was funny anyhow. Simple minded and funny.

Watching people’s faces pucker up n frown and go whooo! as they smelt the exhausted bacteria in the egg.

That’s that he said.

12. 28.98 
Victor Millan

Drug Deal

So a few months back in the middle of summertime I was low on puff so I called up Jose in Rosecrans to score some of that sweet bud he was holding on the side.

No problem bro he says.

Come on down.

"Cool."

Slowly coming down many stories off my forgetful high ~ glassing my head on straight I grabbed my keys and some cash and drove the Beast w/ass fire speed down the 405. Beast is the scratched up, blue on blue '72 Nova – lookin’ cool though.

  Blasting the Doors ~ Strange Days  .  .  .

Bunch of wavering fuckheads out on the road tonight not willing to get committed to the punch of the cock. Barbed wire freeway signs ~ impossible graffiti overpass ~ this yellow street light barely survives but I’m already gone in my Chevy.

LAX planes fly overhead coming back hoping to see it as they left it. Casino on the roof top calling it overtime ~ homeless and dignity break open the wine.

Drug deal going down at 7:00 p.m. right after little league. Seventy miles an hour. Coming up quick on his pad.

So I get there and I slowly and inconspicuously roll up one house past his. I shut the Beast down and I go inside looking over my shoulder on the way in. He’s bench pressing weights right in the middle of his living room; finishing up a set he was, one sofa, one tv, and one incline bench press machine.

How ya livin' baby?, he says to me.

"Cool man, cool."

Alright ~

You got here fast, here . . . have a hit. ~ and he hands me a glass pipe.

Lisping P. o. S.

So I was watching tv and Mike Tyson was sitting in front of a panel of distinguished shitheads pleading his case that he was not a disturbed ear biting bulldog like we all knew he was. Keeping his fingers x-ed that they'd reinstate his supplicant ass. Ali was there, trembling that shake that’s trapped him so well.

Float like a butterfly ~ Sting like a bee

The prettiest black man in his hey day ~

kicked everybody's ass except for a handful and ugly Spinks in ‘78.

There’s that famous picture of him standing over Sonny Liston bitching him down; but now-a-days the tremors got him paying his dues for being the greatest.

Magic was there too showing his support for that lisping piece of shit.

And the Peppers sang ~

does anybody want some Magic Johnson?

And then  .  .  .  just my dumb-fucking luck,

Tyson speaks ~

with that little annoying screwed up voice he has

Look, I fucked up.

I . . . I know I fucked up . . .

. . . I mean . . .

and he went on with that miniscule pussy willow voice of his

and the Nevada Athletic Commission went nuts for it and opened up their arms 4 to 1

and said welcome home son but don’t make us look bad

and he got reinstated

and they were all happy except for me and the 1.

We were ready for the straight-jackets.

10.98
Victor Millan 

Like a V

So once again I showed her I was sexed. That’s it.

Not over or under,

or even wanting.

Just . . . sexed.

And that’s when she noticed the subtle pattern in my not-so-subtle wet erections and asked me to bed her down and spread her out like a  V  by the ankles so I could see what sweet candy the import Mandy had to give.

She was Arabesque and her toenails were painted a rebel fuchsia w/the ankhlet & the Chinese poon dragon tattoo clawing tight on her secrets and the inside of her thigh.

Her rising moon was shaved porno bald screaming to be shamelessly satisfied. Glossy and smooth w/the quivering butterflies distracting my knees.

The holiest of all holes was bronzed and puckered up like a butter-scotched pornographer’s wet dream.

I knelt and inserted her lascivious fix becoming a holy man on the spot.

Soon to become one w/god, lover, and the animals piously chanting around

the vibrating sun.

1996 
Victor Millan

Flower of Babble

“Let’s Do One Each And Then We’ll Go Pick

 An Album.”

“Muy Bien.

 Flower Of Babble

 And Nothing To Be Afraid Of.

 I’m Going To Get The Hole In The Bucket.”

Sometime in the mid 90's

Vic & Lisa & Snow White

CitY PiGs

So many pigs cruisin’ this immoral city.

Too many of these fuckers with their greedy snouts plugged in to the grindstone or up a sugar daddy’s puckered up asshole. Sniffing or wet kissing the top pig’s brown hole with unlikely gusto. Sniffing is best they say, like a healthy medication.

I don’t buy a word of it, not from the wild boars

or the city pigs.

drenched in neurotic sweat ~ out of their minds

black and charred to the lying bone.

hoping they won’t be the lead on the 6 o’clock news.

Pigs rolling in the city.

Pigs on the take. Under the table. Crooked as fuck.

Pigs in a blanket sweating the fat sweat ~ rape behind the badge. Corruption’s casual as their deft hypocrisy. Pigs ultimately going the long way under,

slowly drowning in their own stink ~

squealing a last grand harrumph! through a mouthful of the warm diarrhea.

Pigs in the end eerily never calming.

Festering in a cramped testicle knot ~ pigs throat deep in the brown stuff making up with their conscience.

Running scared from the pig butt fuckers. Pig butt fuckees they call em’.

Tortured pigs turning up dead with an impossible hard on,

dead in their pig pen lots.

Sometime in ‘96
Victor Millan 

On The Mistreatment of the Mentally Unhinged

Locked in the snake pit where smiles have left them for ever graves;

  the 13 remain with the many behind iron gates, forgotten and underfed.

Eight human souls sit on the floor under the world with their backs leaning against filthy padded walls. They count their woes and years on each other’s tired brows.

Another shits in his own wheelchair

                     and laughs hysterically ‘cause he knows

                               he’s not the only one

                                                      doing it.

Three more are put away in the attic behind a government lock with their ghosts and creeping thoughts blowing spirits into the eye of the shadow ~ they exist in makeshift crib cages.

The stench of their stale feces floats dry with the spoiled dust.

And there’s one more ~

the last one’s downstairs in the center of the room thoughtlessly walking around in circles, her fingers intertwined her wings down in flames  ~  she’s walking and pissing

confused because her mind cannot complete

                                        a simple thought or remember the names.

1994 
Victor Millan

Fire and the Sand Angels

They said it couldn’t happen and wouldn’t believe their salty eyes

when it did again.

Some unhinged fucker fire starter dragged his heels into the mountains and lit up Malibu something good ‘n fierce and thank the good lord I got to go home early from work that miserable day. But traffic going out the PCH was a 4 hr. motherfucker of a bladder control test for some, I’m sure.

About two and a half hours into it I had to pull off into a gas station to put more gas in the Beast and let ‘er cool off in the branding heat of an approaching firestorm. As I did this, rich people drove by at 2 miles an hour sweating and panicked in their Benzes and Explorers and their white convertibles with large paintings and rich people shit sticking out of their back seats.

You could smell the money and the chaparral burning through the canyons. Getting hit on the face w/their worthless ashes. Might as well get back in the car and go, I thought.

That night me and 3 friends went down to the beach – somewhere between Venice and Santa Monica - and got handsomely stoned by ourselves. No one was around for a good blind-sight meaning the nearest asshole was about a good football field’s distance away in the dark.

And my friends made angels on the sand. Flip flopping. Getting sand in their hair ‘n shit.

I stood around watching them and everything else around me as it spilled out.

Listening to the waves passing the time as they rolled in. Feeling their mist land on my face – enhancing my peace of mind.

And when they finished doing their thing, we all sat on our jackets and toked up a little bit more. Cupping our hands around the lighter trying to keep the wind from blowing the flame out.

Got a little more destroyed. More in the zone.

Got a little bit stirred and the stars looked alive from my point of view.

Life was swell for a brief moment. It was a pleasant night. I was on the beach. My friends were there and the hills had a blazing, surreal, out of control fire line.

Malibu had lost her reins and was burning up and somehow the timing of it all seemed

just right.

And then the earthquake hit.

written between late '93 - early '94
(Malibu/Northridge)
Victor Millan

Birth of a Man

I wrote the words to Birth of a Man in early '94 when my mind was turning. Later that year,
Eddy & I thought some ink was missing from said words so we threw some
ideas around for an image.
What you see above is Eddy's vision for the words he read.

Words by Victor Millan
Image by Eddy Millan

© 1994

(Eddy used Prismacolor pencils and pens in creating the above image.)
To see more of Eddy's artwork please visit http://www.semigod.com/