tempest miller – 2 poems

PRONGHORNS

the crack spoon reflects my balls and pubic hair

and there’s sperm on my tip and down after

you masturbated me under the dressing room table for 87 minutes

with your hands covered in overly-viscous blood;

you have wispy fingers like the Jack Frost of handjobs

and you threw lightning

threw dreams from piggy hands

using one to jerk me off, using the other

to insert a Protestant crucifix into yourself

as I gyrated my pelvic bone through closed

made-up subcontinental spaces

stuffed with gore and jelly and entrails

and you said enfer enfer enfer;

the crack spoon - dusty and smeared in lactation

and the red lighter adjacent to my mottled shaft 

blood specs, coats of spunk turning gelid

like grey, dead fruit cake icing;

the coat of sperm is hot now under the flame like Kevlar;

at first the sperm grips to my shaft

and it still searches hungrily after a pear-shaped womb

and the spunk gets weak on its odyssey and turns water-blue 

and eventually, like Cain, grows bitter

and tries to impregnate me

tries to invert to something woman-like

in the not at all effeminate dick

and plagiarise a baby in the circumcised enrobed cock-husk;

fire pours from the ceiling and Truman says to get out of the kitchen

and you don’t look down

and you go to a backroom in your mind

and feed the five thousand with slimy trout all the way down your trachea

and take mass and burble the wine

and get lonely and tired and treat yourself to poppers

and come back out onto the reality of a flame breathing boyfriend-like on your cock feeling alright;

a sweltering pool party with pornstars spread-eagled on pink towels - 

toes in water and curled in electro-shock

psychotherapy Pavlovian orgasms;

a hot day melting the ski resort into a bay

a hot day melting your Cola ice cubes to watery residual

a hot day in Amsterdam loaded on edibles -

cercles concentriques;

and my Zeus-like bloodied phallus, my eroticism

which I hung out for after the sleazy show

restrengthens into a new zombified boner

like putting your dick into an incinerator

a garbage compressor, a witches cauldron 

a patio barbecue, a hand-turned creaming device

a Bunsen burner

onto the bonnet of a sun-bathed Mustang;

and the sperm bubbles with the crack

clouds of sperm-crack

and us just animals on the high, bent knees

and I see Ovid in the

clouds of dead life you beat out of me

Michael

with your lips covered in carrot juice

and your ass welt-red like the Japanese sun

a pronghorn bolting from the cavity where you store your amphetamine

and how many times do I have to tell you you're unwell?

and the clouds fill up the room 

like foaming peppermint

a double helix decay in a Category 5 storm;

and when you think there’s no more there always is

born out of the charred prick and the smouldering bollocks;

and then melting back down

collapsing and sad

hot air balloons pricked by the needle-like dicks

of the phallus reality;

handjob blood-soaked sperm popped balloons

laden over the room


SHAKE N BAKE

if he's sitting at the kitchen table

proclaiming he's normal,

just know he shot water up his ass

and held it there like in a lockbox for five minutes,

and exalted when he made the toilet water dirty

and he did it four times.

and there's a secret hiding under that shower head.

and he's suffered strange things

for strange things and strange images

he couldn't shake from his head.

as he poured out breadcrumbs onto delightful microwave meals

and proclaimed himself a zesty kind of friend,

a friend to meet in a pub

and laugh and chit-chat with

saying he couldn't get drunk because he was already high,

and the waitress was swaying kind of weird

as she entered his order into the computerised register.

soap his hands in the bathroom covered in towels and cardboard,

pour out silicon moisturiser

which can melt material,

which can damage goodies.

it's some worthwhile cause.

it's some crusade to love someone when you love no one.

when it gets stuck there,

and when your engine becomes corrupted,

your bronze pistons go grey.

pour out rust, pineapple-like.

when you wince and empty yourself for all these fads

and throw a coup d'état on your gut molecules,

and the NHS ambulance comes to operate on your lampooned stomach

of endless, dripping, expelled faeces.

but put your shoulders back

and grip the sink rim and stick it out.

you're a human being and Lou Reed was a human being as well.

and your revolting sex ed is still a plus.

and while the disruption to your natural systems

seems like an eternal death, it is just a regular thing.

for people born clowns and victims of powers beyond themselves

as your cake remains ok,

and you don't need the pharmacist

and things are just as they are usually.


TEMPEST MILLER (he/him) is a writer from the UK. His work has appeared in Swamp Pink, Boats Against the Current, The Argyle, The Gorko Gazette, Revolution John, MiniMag and A Thin Slice of Anxiety. He releases a monthly chapbook on Amazon. His instagram is @tempestm1ller.


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