Phantasmagoria.

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I am stumbling up a flight of stairs.

Or maybe, maybe I am the stairs and some drunken asshole is stuggling to tread on me, thread by me; naysay my existence like he has a thousand times before. I’m only recognized when I’m an obstacle.

Or maybe, maybe I am the brown haired girl holding him steady, watching his acetone tears burn streaks of agony across a world weathered face tethered to hopelessness before its time.

Time time
maybe I am time, tick tocking, pocket picking the universe of its pinnacle highs and lows with papershredder in-betweens.

Or maybe, maybe I am the dream of her that caused this fucking mess in the first place.

Emporium of worrysome holdovers.

Phantasmagoria is the only recourse
of solar systems on the brink
of supernova.


Willie Watt

9/15/14

Fish Food

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These are the interesting abstract result I conjured up from a Paper Plane Pilot visit to the aquarium. The four installments are photographs taken from above the public exhibits during the fish’s feeding time.  Thanks for taking a look!

Abstract Water1

Abstract Water2

Abstract Water3

Abstract Water4

Progress in Adulthood

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I walked down the street to the secondhand bookshop
and spent ten dollars on cook books because
I have to be an adult now. I lost my change on the bus
back home after I bought myself an ice cream cone
in a store with an illustration of a cat in the window.

The street lights always remind me that tomorrow is never
a promise but a curse – the sun will rise whether you do or not,
and I remind myself this every morning I feel paralyzed with fright.

I counted eight apples and four bananas but only one avocado
because I am trying to be healthy. I ate two bowls of Captain Crunch
at midnight because my teeth ached for sweets. I vomited up
rainbows and giggled with some of it still on my chin.
My mother always told me to find the beauty in the ugly.

I ran out of jam, and I drank out of the milk carton after
slicing my hand open when cutting up an onion. I don’t like onions, and
milk dripped from my lips and blood from in between my fingers. I thought
that adulthood really did mean not giving a flying fuck
as long as I remember garbage day and brushing my teeth twice a day.

I cleaned out the litter box, vacuumed the parlor, and I
even made my bed. I told my mother I loved her and spoke
to my father without calling him an ass. I curled my hair and
wore lipstick for the first time in days. I wonder if my lips
taste like the plum color they are.

Little things add up to big piles, and Aesop’s Fables taught
me that much, next to slow and steady wins the race.
I’m putting the pieces together bit by bit with careful gluing;
I guess you could say I am making progress.

Neon Soot.

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I am the ashtray of existence,

gathering
gathering
gathering particles.

Incessant ashen grind.

Judge, Jury and Executioner;

a stylized portrait of Lucifer,

troubadour on an animate shelf,

wave crested by immolation

of self.

Verdict:
Indictment of dirt and gravel.

Gavel:
By the power vested in me
I decree
I’ll never bring my head down from these ecstasy-laden clouds.

Day in, day out
languishing in cylical
fear and wonder and doubt,

and without
scream or kick or shout
I ponder the thunder
just beyond the breach in my coal-stained essence;

yes,

yes I am the ashtray of existence
but they’re smoking technicolored
revelry.


Willie Watt

9/11/14

glass house

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being a writer is like
living in a glass house
you learn to tolerate the
stones.

Emphatically.

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Of course I’m the first one to escape this dying town.

I was the first to fall in love,
and the first to fall apart.

The first to replicate despair,
and the first to generate art.

First to kindle an orignal thought,
First to draw an athiestic breath.

First to remember passion’s promise,
First one to forget.

First to pretend,
First to hate,
First to swear at God, revel, laugh in madness, peer at sanity;

and certainly first to fornicate.

First to die
and be reborn;
First to never really change.

First to walk into a contradiction,
deny a fatherly dictum;
First to linger within a paradox
and survive.
First to swim in an ocean of lies and cling
to a single thread
of meaning.

First to revel in the infinite ethereal;
First to admit he’s
mortal,
fragile,
ephameral.

First to dance in the
less-than-dimensional,
more than conventional
and reprise the role of destined for ruin and cheat it.

First to get high.
First to commune with music.

First to lose humanity.
First to value it.

First to live forever in a single moment,
and see the cloth of reality warped by the
sensual, contextual,
limitless
beautiful
broken
imagination
of a mad man.

Of course I’m the first one to get out of this dying town.


Willie Watt

9/8/14

A Cauterizing Fantasy

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I was besieged by dream late last night,
but it was blessed too, the perspectives
I had never truly envisioned cauterizing
the ache that had plagued me so this year.
A hallucinogen of questions had once
whirled between my molecules, but freedom
glistened now upon my irises, a taste
I had not gorged upon in tremendous
longevity. I was conversing with a stranger;
whose blonde hair resembled bars
of golden brick, while his crooked teeth
appeared unusual upon a man
of such first world magnificence. His voice
bore the bluntness of an unkempt axe,
a violence willing to spew itself upon thee
the moment anything went amiss.
So here I was, for reasons yet to be revealed,
attempting to postulate the unconvincing truth,
that feelings of a romantic nature
for his succulent paramour, had not sprouted
within my chest. Until she appeared beside me,
I had little idea who it was I aimed to defend
myself agaisnt, knowing only that the truth
did not fall upon my tongue. Yes, I wanted
this young vixen, like I want to breathe
the freshness of the oxygen each day,
however I had little knowledge of her intent
until she whispered it into my ear;
‘let’s have sex’. He hardly would have heard
her words, but would have certainly taken note
of my spontaneous jump, and as she sat down
with him, and ran her fingers through his hair,
I knew no amount of denial would push
her words of rooted affect out from the bounds
of my head. Once awakened from my slumber,
I had to surrender myself to a moment
of contemplation, wondering if the words
said within this obscure fantasy were indeed
from the lips of my wishful beloved,
or just the insane prattle of a young man
wishing for more than his friend
would ever surely wish to give.

A reading of the poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/FVPKC4n6QiA

This above poem is actually based upon a dream I experienced last Friday night, I do believe. It is true that I have had feelings for the woman that was in the dream itself for quite a long period of time, and it’s ironic, or perhaps amazing, that the mind is able to sort through all of the complicated emotions whilst the body is in an unconscious state, and produce an unprejudiced and honest perspective that cuts through everything else to deliver the honest truth. I however am still digging through the layers of the dream to understand how truthful its perspectives really were. Perhaps I should open this up to the readership: if you have a dream that reveals a truth you have been denying for so long, should it be taken as a sign to make a move, or is it simply the lunacy of a mind wrapped in sleepy pastures?

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