Beyond this mirror is another mirror.
Beyond this feeling, another feeling.
Into the jellied house we went reeling.
The ceiling came undone
at the sight of us
in our cracked syntax. Such actions are
necessary in these contexts.
The windows,
by some twist of fate, remained unvexed,
and a wicked hex cast its shadow
on the floor. The door was troubled doubly
by this vulgar display.
Books were setting fire to their words.
The bed was mired in a choir of sexual frustration.
In my exaltation,
I founded a nation in the shower.
Our virtue is Power, as elaborated by Gregory Corso.
Our flag is the ragged torso of moral truth.
In the sofa cushion was buried a tooth,
a calculator, and wet coffee grounds.
The phantom bound and gagged in the hall
was all we had in common, fed only on ramen
and turgid axioms. Maximum underdrive.
I was coming quite alive by now,
your dress confessing a secret will
to come undone as I ran my hand along your thigh.
We got high in the attic, losing ourselves
in the static of winter.

-r. miller


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