C.N.P Poetry 

The After-Party; Second Wind; Something Like That

by: r. miller


The After-Party


once all the backwash clears

and only rudimentary sediment

or sentiment remains?

No good-time promises

to clog the neural pathways,

nor guarded motivations.

We vicious ones will have our day

in hell like we'd wanted all along.

The data will consume us

and belch a satisfied song.

Thus the wonderment can begin in force,

and the pedestal upon which perch

our futile passions yield to gravity.

I found this ache inside of me

that had grown too cramped for its quarters.

So I made the necessary renovations

to accommodate it.

Despite my sincerest efforts,

I could not learn to hate it.

Even after it died,

I kept its corpse around for decoration.

Follow me into a brand new confrontation,

fresh and wet and teeming

with unseemly speech.

Obscene gestures mark the minutes here,

for all who would receive them.

From these, I'll spin the fabric

of a darker etiquette,

lustrous and warm,

to protect against these churlish snows

which sometimes flourish here.




Second Wind

Let's give the mundane a try,

a sly wink from across the table,

something confounding, preposterous.  

In actuality, bloodlust is in fashion

and difficult to ignore, particularly

if you run with the boho set.

There's just something about this agenda

that distorts the tempo of colloquial speech.

The whole damn infrastructure's

gone frustrated and tired, as we eye it

helplessly from our ruined perch.

Whatever tactical advantage

was cultivated now withers distinctly,

and I'm turning 18 again

(So long, Chronology).

Just in time to wipe the spit

from the corners of my mouth,

declutter the old base of operations.

If only I were feeling ambitious in the least,

I could move these mountains to tears.





Something Like That

They laid the barriers which

would block the path of Progress,

then laid a hefty breath

that stunk like meat and age

upon the febrile heart of the People.

Something like that.

You know, I could be more fatalistic

if I didn't have to try so hard.

And night is only 500 yards away

in the distance doing

a weird kind of disco.

Something like that.

Why am I unable to procure

a proper name for myself and situation?

What are the ethics, even?

There will be time now to feast

and fall from the precipice

once the correct drugs

have left their mark in the blood.

Something like that.

Clearly, I'm unfit to fill

the good guy role for which

I once felt overqualified.

I go on waiting like a clueless chump

for holidays to crystalize

out of flickering ephemera.

The battle hum dies before

getting past my lips, pale and parched

by winter's starch white touch.

Something like that.





r. miller is an avant-garde poet residing in the wilds of southern Pennsylvania. His poems have been featured in Petrichor, Angry Old Man, taxicab, New Reader Magazine, and various other print and online publications.

​​

"The After-Party" deals with getting older, reevaluating positions you may have held when you were younger that experience has shown are no longer tenable, and gaining a better grasp on who you are. The moment I was envisioning while writing this was the one of brief, poignant clarity in the waning hours of a party, as you begin to sober up and wonder what any of it is for.


"Second Wind" was written at a time when I was feeling disconnected from my poetry. I hadn't been feeling the same joy as I had before. It was all beginning to seem more like work than fun. This poem came from the moment where I rediscovered the joy that writing had once provided.


"Something Like That" is another poem about reevaluating former positions and gaining a better grasp on who you are, even though these may come accompanied by disappointment. The refrain "Something like that" which punctuates each stanza is the speaker acknowledging the limitations in expressing theirself through language.

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