there is a body with no light/
hands/never speak.
suffocated roots/last breath/a   s y m p h o n y.

i don’t want you/to be/a whisper.
i don’t know how to stop/you
 
my body/has become a name.
i was forced to stand/tall.

i etch sentences in sweaty palms.

it takes  e v e r y t h i n g  to be here.

please/be patient.

the flood is over.

shhh

light/is speaking.

Nightmares and Hallucinations

“We’re all running towards a future
we won’t remember.”

I wrote that after I woke up from
another nightmare, and
lately they’ve been particularly vivid—urban kid
living between complementary visions
of reality.

Wanted to ask you to begin again, because
I can’t accept that I’ve lost 
my best friend in the same breath that I took flight and bent willpower into godly ascent; can’t reconcile my one sin
with the pride and turmoil that exists within
bitter coffee grounds inside gray-matter transcendence.

A good story only needs three things:
1)a view of the city,
2)a bottle of whiskey,
3)and a girl;

a)the view has always been there, I guess,
even before I was there to see it;
b)the whiskey came from the Twin Liquors
on the corner of Riverside and Wickersham;
c)the girl…well, that’s  a little more complicated.

Pulp fiction connotation, and
in an inversion of identity masturbation, I
guess you’re the James Dean in this chiaroscuro
altercation.

Contemplation of the freeze-frame, but you were only there
for a second—hookah smoke lingering around your beautiful
incarnation—and since I saw you last
I’ve had so many surreal hallucinations
that the walls are becoming
permeable
again. 

You’ve always been the goddess in  our 
story, and I’m sorry
it took me so long to see 
that you’ve been the main character
all along.

But if you’ll permit a song of excess, I’ll devote every run-on sentence to you for the rest of my internet-drunk obsessions  if it means I can place my head on your naked chest again, eat from the bread of your lips and drown in our original sin with bittersweet symphonies echoing between my  ears, and I want to cry every time I hear your voice in my head and everything is suddenly about you and all these pop-songs are about you and all these whiskey-highs are about you and all these sleepless nights are about you and all these nightmares are about you and all these hallucinations are about you and all these thoughts of self-harm are about you and all these nicotine-clouds are about you and all these poems are about you and I know I’m supposed to use punctuation to separate these clauses but honestly I’ve lost the willpower to use commas periods italics quotation marks and it’s just going to have to be good enough when the world is so dark and i never meant to be so pathetic but you’re every perspective i never knew i needed and i know i’m supposed to rhyme in these poems but fuck that 

you’re one of the only reasons i still give a fuck
anyways.

I just want you to be proud of me,
that’s all.

Willie Watt
03.01.17

 

pOp [cUlt]UrE

cinematic entrapment: I can’t
help seeing the movie
that
might’ve been.

the last thirty minutes of La La Land
the blueprint
for a devious Cheshire grin,
and I’m trying to reclaim the past
and turn it into a refurbished future.

“OK Computer,”
take me back to ‘97
when I was three years old
before the universe was an at-large abuser;
before paranoia was an everyday acquaintance, and only existed abstractly as a Johnny Greenwood solo.

android hand controlling science-fiction
pop-culture, and even if we polled Orwell and Bradbury and Huxley
I’ll take a rough guess, and predict they’d view our disposition
as vulgar.

I took you by the hand, and accidentally broke your heart—a peculiar form of cannibalism;
and you pressed my teeth to the pavement, and turned revenge into an art-form—a necessary kind of animalism.

survival of the fittest, and all that.

but for every grand-scale social pain
there’s an interior ache that mirrors it; and
I’ve swallowed twenty-two years of pride
to ask you to weather both storms with me.

more importantly, I found out I loved you a little too late,
and I like to think that’s a forgivable offense, even after everything we did to each other.

this separation makes me violently queasy, and
I know more than most that reconciliation
ain’t easy—but if you’ll permit a pretentious diatribe:

this third try could be postmodern cyanide, literary and cinematic formaldehyde, and this time I’ll preserve the celluloid even if it kills me.

I don’t believe in happy endings,
but I believe in presenting the intertextual truth of past poems,
and to quote the words of a slightly younger poet:

“…you’re the only piece
of realism
that has ever been better

than the illusion.”

Willie Watt
2.27.17

Heretic

Inebriated intellectual
watching the interplay between external and internal
movies.

The film is violent; cerebral riots in
the street,
and songs of lamentation echo from every
synaptic corner.

I held logic to my chest like a rosary. Watched
as poetry performed dialectic deicide—Nietzsche
laughing at the misinterpretation of celestial
oblivion and heavenly treason.

Seasonal variances notwithstanding,
I’m abandoning
any pretense of objective distance
within these crumbling
walls—hopeless requests to cherubic messengers of infrastructure and their portents of favor;

every molecular structure appealing to its better nature,
and crying out in embarrassment;

speaking the truth is the only remaining moral imperative,
and even as you label me a blasphemous heretic
I’ve christened this moment the part where I finally form the everlasting narrative.

Sorry that it isn’t all flattering,
but you shouldn’t have fucked a writer
if you didn’t
want
to
live
forever.

Willie Watt
02.20.17

 

first account

i can’t believe the first word was penis.
huh?
in the crossword.
what male lions have that females lack.
i think it’d be manes, sweetie.
i have an inappropriately strong desire to play with your hair right now.
i parked by the pink elephant!
so now what is 17 across.
fuck i have so many cookie dough bites for you.
i like to look up the scientific adjectives for animals.
i don’t think animals like to talk about it.
there is sadness everywhere.
the i-10.
we don’t say i here.
i want to be angry for once. i always just let people leave. like it’s okay or something.
i just don’t even feel like a person. people make me feel so small.
what does love taste like?
it tastes like humming bird blood.
yeah, it’s like… as long as they’re emotionally yours who gives a fuck.
there’s actually a reason i like ladybugs so much but it’s a long story.
i sometimes am not sure if you’re real.
i’m stuck on two words.
i don’t know about these choices.
i have an overwhelming sense of motivation today.
i was drowning in lostness.
the moon is so real about shit.
tell me you were joking.
i think i just wasn’t very comfortable.
how bad i smell right now has filled me with a vague sadness.
i’m glad you’re still here.
you missed a video chat with ****
sometimes i feel like everyone hates that they love me.
and then i feel like insta-depressed. just add water.
i think i’m going to add him to your dossier.
i would be very confused as to how to wash your hair. i wouldn’t know how to approach that.
i didn’t sleep… rather shook and whimpered.
what responsible thing are you up to?
i may have killed all of my mom’s plants.
i just convince myself they’d be better without me.
but then you remember how to feel love and it makes you feel disgusted with yourself.
i don’t know being alone makes me ugly.
i can’t really point to anyone that doesn’t hate themselves.
you’ve felt me.
i’m not too afraid.
i don’t think you’re capable of that.
well, i feel like i have to explain the rabbit hole.
i just feel guilt every time.
am i supposed to learn from this?
answer: next chance i get.
i’m allowing my dysfunction to ruin plans with you.
are you… still doing that?
it’s okay, cleaning makes me feel good.
did they do anything wrong or did they just not see me coming?
don’t remember me.
i made this when i was unemployed and bored.
yeah, i can’t really afford the good ones unfortunately.
i’m ready to disappear.
you’re not cowardly, you just don’t expect enough decency from people.
i don’t know it just makes me really self-aware.
19 years of saying nothing locked inside my chest.
i wouldn’t even know how to go about changing a person.
i’ll make you cool.
if you want.
what do you mean?
like hollywood-y.
this chocolate looks like a dick.
you gotta go with the fur, not against it.
the monster… she takes over.
i didn’t know these people. they were just random.
i’m such a paranoid person if you haven’t noticed.
the past exists. it just weighs too much.
i just can’t handle the shame.
little easily missable moments.
on a day-to-day basis people just want things done. they don’t want to feel emotional about it all.
no, you’re confusing things there. it’s the love itself that is difficult to bear, it’s not you.
mainly because when i feel, i feel.
my car is caked in ashes.
i’ll face it tomorrow.

Free hugs

They called us backwash babies.
Better sense inducted us
to a more mythic plane.
With that, the sane stayed satisfied
and the pied piper threw himself into the river,
his last words being “Stick the pension up your ass!”

Truly, it was either high time or high tide,
with a rucksack stuck to a crucifix
pressing its judgment into a puree.
Life indeed moves at a different speed here,
so different it’s excruciating, like,
everybody feels like they’re waiting constantly,
but know not what they’re waiting for.
On and on the litany goes, but
knows not what it names.

A violet shame induced a fever
like a wrecking ball made of sunshine,
made every straight line of dialogue wavy
and saved us all the burden
of holding on to corpses.
Outside, the four horsemen
were offering free hugs.

-r. miller

Anathema

and perhaps the chaos
wracked each perilous hour
and the masochistic wreck
of my annihilated virtue
devastated the sweet idyll
landscape of foregone youth.

and it’s true that the potent
novocaine of indifference
left me fumbling with every
letter that facons your name.

forgetting the pale
undulations of your skin
underneath my
tremulous fingertips
came easier than I’d like
to admit.

and I welcomed the violent
ransack of our secret Jerusalem,
hearkened irrevocable excommunication
with the incendiary fervor
of a zealous heretic,

and watched the sun set
on the unholy wasteland
of shattered hallelujahs.

but today the lights went out,
and the apocalyptic documentary
reeled in double-time
as a slow accent declared
the cataclysm we’d already witnessed,

and the quiet aftermath
of vacant homesteads and
nameless death and graves
effaced by the black wave
of lifeless faces rolling over the screen
wrought a stillness that I
could almost call holy.

and darling, under all this
scarlet bravado
and intellectual machismo,
the cheap plastic trophy case
that I curate with pallid devotion,
the nihilistic irreverence for every
god that ever scorned me,

you are still the cynosure
of my dearest hope,
the fleeting grace that makes this
sisyphic quotidian
a pain that I can live with.

your arms,
mortal but somehow more than,
are the surest haven
I could hope to embrace
in this tar-stained, scar-laced existence.

and I still love you,
and I haven’t forgotten,

and I’m hoping you’ll let me say it
before my apathy beckons
and erases the last aurulent vestige
emblazoned beneath my eyelids.