Poetry considered as a body of work

Steam rises off cotton swab.

He is the artiste
imbedded in concrete,
Iambic pent amateur.

Noxious fumes drive overboard
those few who had remained dry thus.
Drawn by an unfashionable need
to mutilate, to register.

"to that fascinating fascist
who was clinking cocktail glasses
of sangria near a bronzed cliche
of ballroom, pantry --
when you grow old, you may
spill coffee on the frocks
of withered arms."

A metaphor: bars file iron bars,
teeth force through gums.

The word,
episcopal, dogmatic
as a catatonic smile.
Did Whistler even want
to fuck his mom?

An acceleration of et ceteras
dwindles meaning to an
empty toilet paper roll.

He views himself
becoming somewhat obsolete.
His contact lenses
are opaque: mirrored
so he eyes his eye.

The signified: it orbits
the signifier like a dead moon
around the sun.  A round moon.
details    details    details.

-Neal Miller, 1994



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