Jaie Miller

Never the spoils

it was a sudden loss of triangulation whipping around imperfection with its eyes like two stones that are the blackest things on earth. it happens to shred the plague back to its mirrored calm and lend you stupor, which you peel back, revealing the origin of the split, in whose discord you sleep every night. this bothers me beyond comparable reach, to watch this nuisance unextinguished stabbing us with a 15 minute warranty  in a séance that rainbows the bombs into google earth fractals and inconvenient stains. there she goes, the indentured rabbit under every snapback doing her best to be bite sized, a kind word to distract you from the gun in your mouth they say fights plaque. i give you immersion in the ringing bell, all the luck that underdevelopment might crush, written by you and seized but never the spoils due flex. that’s too rich, too abrupt-

How to become a beautiful human
how to become a beautiful human- find wire, stroke it against your dim vein. find nature, lure it with your underwater dance. first yin, then yang your exposure to art and textures of light. grow softly.  protect bubbles, they are your inner scream, invite them to hibernate mute rain for long durations in nobodies vault. outwit karma with closed eyes , drench poetry by running arms outstretched . invoke elephants by walking barefoot in the temple, they send you letters that rebuttal the ocean tide. become a reflection with more to say. study water from the east. sage will ragtime and spinning alone is enough to bebop. Sufi your mattress more often . convince your salt intake of a future that is only soap that burns. see things from the point of view of sepia. talk yourself out of Rome from a distance , into permanent feathers of the bushel. glance momentarily at other grains of sand and laugh wildly, make it out of focus. shed sympathy of it’s wind swept orb. create algorithms for remembering dreams, do it while falling. give dust back what it gives you, a habit of entrance. return here. run your hands over pride, feel it’s roughness , make an institution out of the space that gives way. build a school there, in the sugar cane field that has just begun to sing. build waves in the pendulum, the last 30 seconds are just flickering light anyway. grab the orb, grab the orb do it again. in yellow, in bloodshed, in brown skin, in all the movies, all of them. throw it away in the first pace you grew sharply, let the dogs  disemˈbouəl it then answer back where the whale is hiding. check the last place you had it. hunt a cheap excuse, sink with it also. you are more of the beauty when you shrine for shreds of will power in a bait ball that is less tectonic furor and more nexus telepathy.


I never believed in so little fury as might step across the polluted water in your closed eyes this morning. what stung me was the hollow scope and lack of incision between the two climates colliding. I find all that I am wrapped in are the chosen limits flung from oscillation. hands that temper pride when they mean to thread contempt into completely new stone and brush material of dormancy before they are exonerated further. this means abiding the music’s edge and growing distance until you can fathom the ships weeping with their bruised permanence into what jostles for supremacy in the hour’s supposition. This means trading the fabrics you thought were flesh for the awoken frames that sever karma at the root, initial horizon by initial horizon. into all that prohibits nature with final steel and does little to molten keys by seminal brush stroke alone. the vehicle that grew suns. inclusion into serial commitment. all of the mutation, non of the symbols they throw into information with webbed grief. there are other affairs to rhyme with obedience, and the movement of excess polarity that journey for leverage across a peace that no one wants. and in this malfeasance we are used but will never meet, some will slant to infer quarantine, but the interference is worn linear. we are all replying to the mountain with ageless trauma camped in a flood of whispers.

Jaie Miller is a poet and photographer from London, England.  You can find more of his work at: http://foronceiamquitecomfortable.tumblr.com/