Friday, July 1, 2011


Sickly, feeble,
A sailor scales his Molehill
     Ascending through shifting grass
High blossoms- seared in arid sun
Wilt and weep, swaying lightly
      Golden rays of August
       Shine on his gray hair
        Wheeze, hack and trudge up
             The Mountain he remembers taller
                   The sun he remembers brighter still.
                  Lick cotton mouth, gaze at rooftops:
                  Assets that slaughtered to rise above,
                 Shredded forests to scrap together
            Frayed rope swing to scrap together
         Phallic rebels on rusted white trucks
     Black Swan Lake bows to Capitalism
    Calls in distant memories, missed
  Yellow caps handicap small hands
       Touching upon incorrigibility
              But he never grabbed;
                The sailor only had
                          Left velvet

--Josh Miller fights inveterate bouts of cynicism, misanthropy, psychosis, and Faustian desire buried just below the cracking surface of his leviathan subconscious. Mentored by a brilliant Vulcan, Josh abandoned his aptitude in mathematics, commerce, and the rational to passionately pursue the splendor of the facetious, the mysterious, and the disturbed.

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