To the other side of 12 o’ clock

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It’s late, too late for young girls to walk dark sidestreets-
that’s what the man in the freedom-color police car tells you.
It’s a dangerous time to walk, pump gas, go for a jog,
a dangerous time to live- haven’t you ladies heard?
but the three of you are bold and raise your chins to the shadows.
You call attention to yourselves, the good kind that repels sidewalk monsters
belting middle-school punk anthems and cawing when the others make dirty jokes,
the whispered kind that no one expects Catholic girls to know.
You lose your breath looking at your friend’s moon-blue skin, and you think
she is goddamn beautiful when she’s fearless.

You have no reason to be out on the streets, but you want to kiss midnight
with an open mouth and taste his black secrets. You want to dance
with those honking drivers and toss your hair when you step on their sorry toes.
You want to sing along with the cricket-thrum and the screeching tires.
You want to conduct this moonside cacophony, and watch the world kneel down
as you yourself bow to the omnipotence of dawn’s aureate crescendo.

The Mantra

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Spit-shine this attempt at camaraderie,
Metallic aftertaste over taking the tongue.
Onlookers cook in our furnace of thought to
Keep the fire in our futurist swag.
Even if the walls were collapsing, it’s a job
Well done, and a fun one at that.
Even the evening cleansing its cooling heart
Eventually leaves us, so why cling to anything?
Desire suits you, as does despair.
Every red blooded despair that’s ensnared you in its
Vapors. We’re rebels, though not necessarily loners,
Embittered stoners with burly bones and
Rouge in our eyes. Our skies are frayed, raising
Yellow fists against the heavens that house them.
Douse the fire in your throat.
Avoid yourself at all costs – it’s how I’m assured
You won’t ever be lost.

-r. miller

Aotearoa

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IMG_3521

Cloak and Haggard

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Cheeto dust in my brain,
and it hearkens to a timid, placated, version
of that singular, deranged, experience.

Dying slowly is worse
than flame,

and I’d rather beg
than forgive Time.

Willie Watt
4.14.15

Traces

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I am eyeliner flicked
back in sultry wings
a siren’s tongue
behind my bottom lip
the neckline of my
sweater stretched out
and hanging off my shoulder.

I am the foreign spit
on your tongue
and the hands
knotted into your hair.
I am the thin sheet
tangled around you
when you wake in a stranger’s bed.

I am the one whose
face morphs with hers
till you cannot tell
if the woman in your hands
is a present whore
or a past wish,
a falling star you seized
before the night was up.

I used to wonder if you saw me
in the folds of your ruined sheets.

Now
I know.

Sugar

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You can try and force it
Make others understand
Twist and turn your thoughts
To be less agonizing
More transparent
And safe
Believe that it will click
One day
Down this hollow road
Simplify or expand
For the sake of their minds
Conger delight and satisfaction
Complying gold
Instead of the rock that is left
Truth is
They will never see
No one has your vision

days when your body is louder than your mind.

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we’re stepping
deeper into this
unknowing sea
of ink, dripping
softly, silently, into
unrecognizable
form. you can’t
see us now.

you can’t see me.

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