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Reasons to Never Return

Postmodern Pandemonium

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Sigh;

Okay you caught me.

It’s true.
My form isn’t typical.
I’m not an iambic-centric
pigeonholed
wannabe Shakespeare in a box.

I’m not.
My poetic rigmarole,
though sloppy as wasted alcoholic fever,
is composed of entirely (mostly) original parts.

Kind of like sunshine when it hurts,
or truth in a church,
or absolutes in the earth,
or mirth in a world-shaped
dearth of confusion.

Long nights,
conjure
something worth remembering;

cigarette smoke ecstasy;

don’t let these words live as just
a temporal revelry.

We’re rock n’ rollers
trying to make a name for ourselves
in a city-scape
intent on rectangular skyscrapers
weary-eyed commuters,
system-savvy looters,
soul-less losers
and de-bugged, pristine, computers

I may be a virus in your hard drive,

but you needed to replace
that Vista crap
anyways.

Willie Watt
8/22/14

Christmas in July

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I
asked
an
angel
yesterday,
of fairness and
good taste, an act this
belated writer does remember,
why did the
festivities come too late?
Why was there to be no Christmas
last July, when assurances and promises
from past precedents,
beckoned me to comprehend
the coming of Saint Nicholas, five months
ahead of schedule. Trying to be incorruptible is not
always as it seems, the niceties of mortal instruments experiencing
their grandest battle on
a daily basis. Rest assured, the
consequences are unwavering, but to cancel
the arrival of a jolly guardian is an act I find difficult to
comprehend, for why should children suffer plight that potentially
only I deserve? I strongly wish for this ritual to be returned one day, so the smiles painted
upon the faces of young
children, remain ever
free and pleasant, in
a world, where our
happiness is not
a guarantee.

You’ll Probably Never Read This

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My car seems to always

know when I’m lost

because it starts to overheat

in a panic

while I’m stuck on the side of the road

wishing I knew where I was

so you could come rescue me

from the heat that is now pounding on my back

while cars pass

not noticing the struggle

that has left me unable to transport myself

to where you are

leaving you to think I have abandoned you again

like I always had in the past

but this time it was not out of wanting

but out of fear

of what you would say

if I did arrive at the intended destination

instead of having to wait

on the side of the road

knowing you would never come

to save me

because you were done with me

before I even started the car

knowing I would never reach you

that I never had in the first place

and the whole time I was in pursuit

I was thinking about the ending

instead of the start

because I knew that you didn’t possess the patience

to let me get so lost

and then finally open up

and be who I always was

instead of what you assumed I would be

and I would drive for hours

hoping to find my way back to you

but my car would overheat

leaving me on the side of the road

in hopes you would find me

and still want to say words that were comforting

and not hurtful

but you never had that thought

and I should have been living

to see a forever

and not a sinking ship

and I should have been real

and not dramatic

and we were holding onto expectations

instead of each other

and it would have been great

if only you’d waited

for my demons to die

and my wings to grow out

from the curves in my back

that you held so lovingly

and my body would be yours

because I knew that it would work

and that nothing could ever stop us

from being together

but the time never came

for the pieces to come together

and the fragile strings

that held us close

were ripped to shreds

so even the slightest incident

like a car over heating

would separate us

for the rest of our lives

because I knew you wouldn’t come

and the more I called

the less it affected you

because you knew I’d always want it

all back

but now it’s too late

and it’s the ending

that I always thought about

but never wanted

more than you’ll ever know

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for brittany 

if we can survive a day without setting anything on fire or collapsing on the ground the sidewalk the back-door bench with chipping paint then we’re doing something right that poor screen door i’m sorry for burning a hole in your shirt how many years ago and i’m certain of why we met on the ground because i knew you were down to earth before you even parted your mouth and i’m glad the pieces sync together same cigarette schedule same order of coffee and even though sometimes the hours don’t work out we still manage to make minutes count and there you go again fixing things that aren’t even broken yet and there is strength there below the skin there is muscle holding us together there are ghosts in our guts that we tame with chemicals survivor’s song overpowering the stereo i asked if you could stomach it and you told me just not to breathe i inhale the day and say goodnight world i’ll have you now

Weird Weekends

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They went upstairs to fuck
and we pretended we hadn’t been listening to their
unspoken conversation the entire
night;
an incessant ceiling fan and two busted light bulbs
cast a ghostly pallor on all our vacant faces.

We’d been alive, alive, alive
mere minutes before,

but suddenly we were zombies
and sleep was the only way to wake
the walking dead.

She gave you head like it was
nothing
but you couldn’t be rid of the image of
that other girl in your bed
and you were breathless -

Wait, that was only my fantasy;

you’re a vision of ecstasy
and I am a recipe for disaster.

Plastered beyond comprehension,
they’re all in their corners
flirting with the border
of getting lucky,

and I’m alone in my corner,
watching them all like an astronomer through a magnifying glass.

my observational stunt is to look through another poorly rolled
blunt
and use it like a telescope;

kaleidoscopic
misanthropic
completely off topic
pocket picking
finger licking
penny pinching
indecision,
and still I feel the need to scream as I begin to choke on my meekness.

I stared into the same flickering
lighter flame
for hours
until it revealed my greatest weakness:

That I could rupture an artery on this bottle every
night
for an entire season,
and still never regret all the
moments wasted when I’m wasted
and broken.

Because it can never be the same for me
as it is for them.

I lost you in October
and was still crying in December;

motherfucker, I’ve woken up in so many parking lots
I can’t remember
that the miracle of the season
was never getting a parking ticket.

Listen.
This drunken
senseless
dick-waving competition
is never going to come out in any one’s advantage.

Listen.
I don’t want to be the earpiece for your
political tangent
religious diatribe
breakup anthem
or verbal dose of cyanide.

I thought I just needed company
but your boyfriend is right across the opalescent tier of this old house
and you promised we’d fuck in 20 years
when our youthful,
less than useful,
ideas are preserved by a paper-thin
fraying rubber band
and we’re probably just as lonely
as we are right now.

So I’ll hold onto this rocket-ship couch for dear life;

It is my magic carpet through the off-kilter night,
and I’m bound for waters clear
enough
to dip in my inebriated toes
and drown a happy
man.

Willie Watt
8/15/14

Takeoff

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For Laura

we were like
birds roosting on a
telephone wire

watching the
world conducting
its orchestra

we never seemed
to clap at the sun
going down

never gave it a
standing ovation
only waiting

for the time
to leave our
perch and fly

the sky without
worrying about
who’s watching

pointing toward solitude
because the earth
below just didn’t

make sense to us

we made the world
our runway

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