The voice of Mils makes butter melt.
His poems are lush, heart-freakin’-felt.
Yeah, lend an ear and you will agree
He deserves to be our first nominee
For audiohood on site Unbolt.
His talent is a much needed jolt
To lift our game and write effin’ good,
To not fear being misunderstood.

Dublin – A Rite of Passage

Before I was soiled: I was
oiled unhappy;
toiling and boiling like
cauldron of darkly wizard-
like pose;
a fingerpinch of spite,
of masculine passivity,
of man who never was become.

Now is another matter:
now he is become:
now he runs like training-
man; now the game no longer judd-
er[r]s, shakes or shudd-
er[r]s out of mind, or sight of flailing
in-
com-
pet-
i-sham.

And of all the sites and scenes delivered,
like rapt-
tured box of heavenly gifting,
the rite of pass-
age which most delivers me
is the right of
so
passing close
you do
give me.
The laughter and tears;
the fears and the hurts;
the love freely expressed:
the goddamn life you contain and inscribe
and so simply
define, with your brain and your being and your
goddamn beautiful face;
your his-
and your her-
and them-
stories bloody out there you unfold and retell and
spin ingeniously around me and my soul and my
being and my hell;
still untold, still unfollowed, still unknown by
most out there.
Dublin: I love you, more
than you
know.
Dublin: I love you, because you and your people
weirdly know how
to make me this [s]well: [s]weller
than [s]weller ever was.

And whilst time is still ours, the future is still
built – upon pasts that are passed;
upon guilts that begin slowly to wash away in
[time-
{s]-
hhh} I say, as
I discover the suddenly that the man
I become is more than the son of his father.

And pictures and faces and sounds and dis-
graces; sexual wroughts that pilfer
my thoughts and make me
happy again; as
happy as free man and
woman can be.

And the days and nights I pass
in remembrance of Dublin
past, and future maybe perfect too,
remind me all the time of you.
And a life recovered
is a life remade;
retaken as warriors burrowing violent
under-
growing and gnawing and
hurting and sad,
and ultimately the [bad-
d-
es–
{t]-
i-
me} of all
is what has recalled me away from
the life I could
live.

And maybe it’ll work, and maybe it won’t,
and maybe it’ll break us;
but if we don’t try and see, and check in and check
out,
we always shall rue the night-
and day-
t-
i-
me-
s
we refused to
pursue the
one life we’d lead
and even enjoy:
good Lordy, oh my …

… that really such a sin?
To hope for such win?

So I begin where
I start: before and after a-
part of so many experiences,
imagined and real; the soul
and the heart I have refound in
Dublin.
And then what is real if not in the hug
of your embrace?

For a future
begins to replace the before and
after which started so hurt,
and now begins rightly to
away fade to
black …
… not the black of all bad, nor the
black of all pain; just the
black of all colours: the
rainbow of
sane.

Text by MILJENKO WILLIAMS
© All rights reserved 2016