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