the poetry that matters

Jaie Miller

Jaie Miller is an artist from the UK, he has enjoyed publications in online zines and blogs such as The Starfish Journal, Venereal Kittens, The Poetry Warrior, and Eviscerator Heaven. He has enjoyed so far collaborating with artists from around the world.

.inherent corpses.
they cornered off the first five breaths she exhaled. voices like a plague without instructions so far, without orders or boundaries, bias or borders. Bouncing like bombs dancing all the while to the off beat rhythm of explosions. The conductor selected like a member of the audience at a magic show. Applauded on stage by machine gun fire to clear the first five rows. It's a crescendo of desires, no drill today, no crisis averted. I'm aimed at all that isn't already dead. Curse this heat, this hat, this leg. I'm on the edge of a death toll, a mountain inherent in our choices amounting to madness occurring day after day. The future in orderly file, lines up to greet us. This pre-sent moment, pre packed, pre paired we could not have known more about. And I've never seen a crime scene so smug.
the FIRST blue tongue of the LIZARD!!
the first blue tongue of the lizard slid under the impression our horizon emptied it's position into the harmony of twelve spoken yet all that delved no deeper into midnight than would a baby’s voice caught dead in the middle of next summer...
all this is true and that which is true being fantastically arousing at the same time simultaneous ///////
i woke up this morning and the moon was soft, subtle, like a breast. My hands on her surface aroused west, whence came the sun dial. to leech his own. it occurred to me an erupting which led me to confide in the decimal. My hands trembled with the ever expanding tumultuous nature of the way our clock spoke. in cloudless formations one would later call sky_ "the sky is a vast bowl" we have championed as sometimes it fell three time last month alone_ when the wings salute the changing tonality off the record. i conduct lucid, grouped intrusions
sometimes words. sometimes words. I conduct electroromatically at any angle i dissolve_at most angles I discover, utmost shades shapes sounds sentences_
oftentimes leaving speechless_Having in order to hail a storm
Stranded_with thoughts of my own to raise_ meanwhile twitched
the remote//scratched the plum blossom _ rendered inocculous
songs that start with an account _ a four count_stretch the classic
below the dragon
he spoke and the wind froze. Twelve edges spun off and ricocheted in a junction formed of spider webs in the eyes of deception. Has there ever been a storm like this to burst from the shell in an engine that rose to weigh rows burrowed beneath the sand; and my voice carved the temple's truth as then slept eye as the sun sent what split into an army portrayed in times when shadows shout at the destroyers of the desert. Any dusk is spent for the lab to discern distance from dust floating within an oasis. Our secret. Checkered reactions retain core correspondence, that kept cropping up_tinted window food drops; prodding the eyes of gators in puddles. Common puddles, the ones we find in the street. All along the front line we kept, our silence pristine, broke away exchange rates: that spoke for themselves, slowly so as not to disturb the morning, any which way you look at it: our choice was an animal who spoke in prayer; was the sting of the cosmos; as ransom. that. myth returned: retaliation capturing movement in the careful click of calculation. 7 more corpses, glistened the menu. taxes mistook wa[inaudible] as celestial translations vacate often our parking spaces. fine. fine. fine.
the curriculum.
it was an antidote in conspiracy. umming and ahhing at around the time when paying attention was just out of the question. reaching the reflection as corpses zoomed decades abyss rampaging foul throws exits the half way line. etymological smile the truth at midnight. anytime syndicate names explosive six years as the oppressor's tongue, since massacres. A-B seems chained light shining tyrannical minutiae of trigger into voiceless molecules; letting it go as marvel; definitions at them?
242 degrees below the dragon; enters macrobes.
The Shift:
The script shifts, now in rows of 3 condensed reality. The Gap. Linear shift smog, horizon jumped return signals the end of time; shift key capitalizes, numeric woe smudged into patterns, immortal_given syndicate-Any one's guess approached the ledge, the lead filled Eden_The smoke fueled reaction, the bio-degradable treason_Tip Toeing overdoes into the north. Night's capacity, the night shifts. Inquisitive shells fell through our arrows, symbolizing heat and all that’s left is a mixture, Two parts shifted, the key capital script that is_As the edge moved closer and the night sang vultures in her throat, in the tune of Eden_Even Eventually on fire, let go of her hair. Patterns immersed in this gradual system of recognition_it takes our time: The alleged approach. Ill advised, patterns shift, the space script ever; everything staged takes a bow: The dead take the stand, stance scripture; Eventually hypnosis lets go of her here:
The color black
This morning everything was dowsed in black. Like someone had let off a shadow bomb in the middle of the city. Chaos everywhere. It was hard to find a place that was not affected by the dark. Although the shadow itself was more like the bursting of a massive river bank. Things were swept away in this color loss. Inducing madness. Necessary for opportunists, never mind bank robbers. In the same way that shadows become one, things merged and were inseparable, impossible to differentiate between and often lost. If you were to observe a motorcycle overtaking a bus, from the shadow's perspective, you would see at some stage only the shadow of the bus and then the emerging of the motorcycle as a shadow of its own. To explain what was happening further. Nightmarish. One shadow. One continuous darkness. The black was choking us. Worse than the worst of smog. The darkness crept through our lungs. We were only able to utter shadows. It snatched up everything. Voices, wallets, phone cards, card decks, deck chairs, chairmen, chess pieces, all lost. A rapid infection. Indiscriminately swallowing everything. Anything. Everywhere. "Hang on a minute" were the last words of a gentleman at the train station. And when the train stopped, the passengers, the driver, the chairs, even the windows had become black. It was like having one's eyes closed. A man was being hung, and this is the strange part, you could see this from the shadows, they moved the noose over his head and he sort of just slipped free. Well his shadow did anyway. As though hanging from a rope is against the law of shadows! I had often heard of only shadows remaining after a nuclear blast. By far this was the same, only worse. It was like having to paint, only the color black, a black canvass, a dark room, and black instead of water. It was like turning on a flashlight, only to be cast further into darkness. The type of place you imagine going after being eaten by a black hole. Parallel only to a white hole. A goal keeper cannot save free kick from a shadows perspective. No-yes, it would go right through him, you see. Does that mean that the net would stop it? In fact-the ball could not even be kicked! Neither can a tree be cut. Or cars crash. So you see what I am saying. The shadows just go through everything.
This morning i sat there in the black. Consumed. But I would not surrender.
Poems for petals
poems for petals.
each Friday
let us unleash the hounds
the ones with sticky tongues
and eyes like ice creams
we will nail the floor to the wall
and play records
using a technique i learnt in my brain
we will turn our dance black and white
each Friday
while the hounds are away.
her number went like this
07 you liar you said six
fine fine
it was always engaged
while she was off rapping
to a broken leg
with some headphones
like, dobubidodoo
let's get rich
shall we?!
you go first
then I'll sue you
and you can give me
all your money
but we'll make it like,
a legal battle
I'll say i slipped
on your shopping
and then you cursed me
on the floor.
you know you want to.
ever since i saw you
then i thought
poems for petals
on a rainy day
eat soup
read a book

Aged Apocalypse
an aged apocalypse-death quenches the burden of redemption on the footsteps of immortality. occupied deceit and an illuminated cancer- cantankerous arousing suspicion that all is not well at the well-twelve bells join forces since Saturn shaped illusions wept by the octagonal wasteland- a coalition of embellished desires timed by fire in a race to eight. the phoenix hung by the tree- avalanche on the strings of a violin- violent excursions subsidiary to condensation- everything predicted-everything exhumed- vacuous screaming sentience alongside months ago-forty labyrinths shattered into a female voice. it was the sun that fell and the moon that kept the secret- they tried to extradite the sound of myths aligning slang into symphonies-in a nut shell- i woke to the sound of bleached vinyl crackling – my voice arrested by gradual indoctrination – the gradient went well with saturated corpses resurrected as Jesus himself, the narrator, ordained the month of April- claiming the throne accumulates deeper visions then are able to be physically sung on this space corpse. Rotted to the cuboid – the Rubicon – Reflexes refrained – the case was thrown-the judges drowned-the neighbors watched-astral projections on the wall-insinuations spun with. Charming the abyss, jealous glances over at the free fall.


emphatically-infected_the first time breached the labyrinth instantaneously birthing a collision within a cocooned radius. Arduous insinuations seep their way through innocuous trespasses. All doctors in us deny the cure. I wrestled with twin infinities, transposing deities atop legitimate escape routes-before space-contorts- the distance kept is the [same] distance shared_and the sun shed it's light, dead to us by now_and the dead dared to dance;dared to spread dreams-along the crust of the earth /_.. the upheavals spread like Saturn shaped gestures-shattered breath lingers on the edge of forever, no-tomorrow, no-more-remorseless steps-his wings stretched-pulling a mountain from the sea: they followed the scent-they followed the sent- an ascent..placed to weigh the keys_a torn dress; as the world turns: power to the people : as the world burns: freedom: the door closed and we stayed outside and built a city with-in. A palace no king could keep and no tyrant could destroy_with us when we wept_silent as we slept side by side. Outside the gates_ inside the city waits_the density of the dream weighed in on us_we're just beginners we thought_we shouldn't carry this life on our backs_[&]who will marry our daughters with the men slaughtered by manned crafts?
 There is no ghost_ only but the truth
in the room above us_as we understand it.
Am I exhaled?
It was a yellow myth. I had clambered the unheard of vertebra and broken in. once where the walls dripped melted aluminum a discontinued avalanche ventured robustly in our mists. the daytime closed without having a word left on the edge of her plate. Voices exhaled some snow echo, yet , without exposing lineage to compound depression in our lost house. Oh, my the cards, all turned and disposed- am I – just collecting rotted chicken bones in the street, somebody starving disco techs in strains from the pineal onto calligraphy guaranteed to sell twelve pages if not the last four...ridden our exodus is dust, in the shop. on top of the shelves please. too short was the rules and stampeding the factory for the rhythm so softly spoken. it was a meteor, an expunged radius_ gently glided on it's side and sighed _colossal wide eyed rhythms conceal ||an exploded heart-it's convenient to the other- as she bled thirty whispers aquatically entered the stolen speech-as so suddenly as she did black out did the scenery become megalithic. the journey detailed. the exhaustion epidemic. any advancement could have continued were it not four had snook past the hour, completed the disjointed connection- neologism careful so that the sex did not land in your chi- smear your explanation, mimicking the same stampede embedded in your tapestry - reflects your Venetian retina - snow white- black hole- in one-in the other. may i be exhaled?


he had removed the x
i liked all the sugar he drank
but it made his tongue no sweeter
if only fouler-as far as hollering will get you
as though all the abuse he had taken
was fermenting-clockwise
as though her tongue had split into two whips
as in two asps-a story i heard some time ago
as though he had split into different people
arguing over the time of day_
agreeing only on the shade_it's length and such
but you can imagine the type of dialogue_
between his shadows-
so as he stood by the bus stop
three shadows arguing
belligerently_one threatening to strike
the other negotiating
you've never lived with the three of them.
one might snatch your attention
i've seen shadows do crazy things
only on some occasions it would be two
but whenever there was one
it would always look lost, confused.
a ladies shadow
is no such thing as rude
no matter how much it ignores you
though two passers by
may not so much as make eye contact
their shadows can often find love
even discrepancies and friendship
not so much as one of you has known this
the night your shadow snook out
and was nearly hit by the bus
at twelve o'clock-the shape of her
they would often become one, you know
two gleeful shadows.
somebody ought to tell your mother
you had a first shadow
it was your twin
you will never be free of this thing
all the sugar he drank
it made his tongue no sweeter.
Bulimic sky (inspired by lots of people)
The holograph leaked affairs across a wounded page, in some ways like Henna art on a scarred palm. And all the illusions of birds armed with cloudless skies could make this night speak, with heavy breath. A weary eye on the morning. Of all the sonographs burst into LSD, this was twelve windows and a messiah that dealt in no more than magic;shining brightly what remnants of a clenched fist brought us, to occur as reflections of healing. And this I am told-no this- this the sky at night. This is a bird song and these are stones thrown by the oppressed. These are shots fired by the oppressors. These are the wounded, with injuries in the back. These are tomorrow's lies. What scars to prove. A man is driven to the edge. What derivative could supply six clocks- a mask and a silence that is to be kept. A silence that masks the night and claims the birds [to be] wingless. An unfortunate song is all that is reoccurring-a plateau of lifelines left stranded by deadlines-far-far into the horizon; subtle lips that feed upon the breast of this galaxy_An infant nourished on what is the milky way. Dead end intentions collapse upon the fertile grasp that guides stars into their birthing place. Her name showers the cosmos and any shadow that remains seated- by any means arbitrary to a pendulum that rotates existence exactly clockwise- is haunted/ any sorrow that collides with the sun these day, I'm afraid to untie- unite for the night is yours?
Facts are the first to the shovel. Bury the dream under the memory.
That day she swam you home, naked, next to the prelude. There will be no preview to look forward to, not unless nature's tongue is as grossly incurring as crimes under Saturn's watch. The crippled star hurled a stone to hasten us into our crash position. Dark drank the conspiracy from the edges like a victory on both sides of a birds eye view. The ill eagle prescribed a seat on a century swiped by the cashier , next week sanctuary finds it's doors locked and the locks changed as music spits out your thoughts. They do not taste good here. Nor did the market stall. oh, the vertical goddess in us all, a war unfolding the best bits we secrete. Numbers were wise not to betray you, have you thought about that? Nothing has to do anything for the sake of keeping everything alive. Just hurtling inbetween gazes and mutual attraction, the same bleeps and curses. The same fleck of paint keeping up with the irrational demands of the machine , time itself diets it would seem, to fit in that dress, the one we will compliments as she takes a final bow. It's what they make of your sub vocalized indictments that really tells the pavements from the tectonics. it's what they harnessed from your fifteen minutes in the microwave that makes a man an aircraft in the distance. And an army a warm smile. A mile away technology discriminates, and the face emanates bleached and ideologically blushing, leaning on the nearest camera phone, wanting to be noticed by additional gods. In her head it's all or nothing before dawn cracks under interrogation, and that will be anything they want to hear. Tyranny is never short- of breath-of cash- of targets. Lucifer's match was made in heaven. The voice of nature, well paid, a blood transfusion away from the red carpet.
we sat inside 9. waiting. Time rose before breaking off into four directions each. An edge spun in such a way to awaken the first smile of the evening. It was hers. The first to catch my eye. Six. Directly across from me a man who was internally recalling his instructions. Eight. We caught each others eye. He registered it and continued as though it was exactly synchronized with what he was doing. For the first time my heart uttered a mature breath, it was swift facing the 4. of all of us who had gathered inside nine, I was the smallest, the funniest and most attractive. My tongue tasted like cigarettes. Fire was not permitted inside nine. Twelve. Above us was the rotation of an axis centered upon configuration. It wasn't my job to discern the combination. So gentle. So still. Again, somebody made a mumbling noise, it sounded like the title of a book. "now" the instructions whispered us into action . Before entering nine, our corresponding journeys had been erased, we were told to wait until someone gave the signal and then begin our duties. Mine was embarrassing. To undress the gate that looked like- she had transformed! A golden light was now pulsating in her palm, it grew upwards, slowly crystallizing, I could locate quartz, amethyst, then nothing, tourmaline, moonstone. One stood and entered her left eye. I was half way undressing the gate, looking back. Damn this soft. 18. "yes, exactly" the man who was opposite me, began to what seemed like, close his argument. "and if you'll take my-no, that's not what-and do you wish for me to bring him here-we can" he was thrown back landing on the work of a white haired boy. "you heard me" he shouted. The boy's work was ruined, but as the man stood he waved his hand over the mess and it went back to what it was. "soon" said the boy with a smile. "Number 9" the voice echoed . "ek-mavi-do-turrr-inmantatt-do-fur-rolos-eno-prolos-evan-sinan-turrrr. And the wind erupted, forcing everyone’s hair into chaotic movements. Six. "no, wait" the man screamed and jumped right into the center of the nine. Right through it. I had been staring at the woman, waiting for the man to emerge from her eyes. By now the crystals from her palm were like swollen mountains and the gate was naked. Someone placed their hand on my shoulder and I was gone.
Number 9.
Genes of ISIS
the color x across algebra's shadow/ clean up all this x/ across the bathroom/scattered followings/ belonging to the shadow of tomorrow/any directions startle me/ that a man should know his way/ and his way to be right/ and now/ as they map the stars/ as they map the genes/ we can succumb/ navigate/ circumnavigate/ are the two aligned?/ the stars and the genes-and to start a fire on one would be to- x/ neglect the start/ the genes of Isis/ the genesis/ the directions/ sat alight/ navigation/ no ovation for the stars, at least/ and no obligation for the genes/ though I look forward to tomorrow/ I am no spectator to the universe/ I cast my mind back/ into x-/the color deities form/ a swirling mass/ as sound breaks/ the habitat lands awkward/ in three does of x/ possessed/ by those numbers/ the solid mass of continuum/



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