first account

i can’t believe the first word was penis.
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


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.

You Wanted a Fallout Boy Song About You, and Fuck It, Now You’ve Got One

Kicked each other in our lowest moments.

We’ve both got our share of Hail Mary’s to

You built  a temple of scorn out of my flesh,
and I gladly supplied the eyeballs and blood-vessels
for your centerpiece.

I built an altar to resentment, and
you gave me your ventricles for the Sistine
ceiling; and your
agony was practically acting in a synesthetic
for all the words I should’ve put
in parentheses.

And it doesn’t matter if you
go on
to fuck the whole world,

we both know that I will never
be just a notch in your bedpost;

And it doesn’t matter if I
go on
to win a Pulitzer
you will never 
be just a line in a song.

I wake up every morning
and I hate the sunrise; and 
you take every silver bullet you’ve got left
and you picture me in the ironsights.

But fuck the cliches
about hindsight being twenty-twenty — I dare
you to pull the trigger
and forget this twenty-something
with the eyes glowing at a thousand degrees

We both know you’ll fail.

So play that punk-rock album
a little fucking louder

and try to make it 
about something

Willie Watt

Ultravoilet Ultravoilence

Six and a half months
the fallout, and
we bump into each other in public
like a shitty romantic comedy;

except, there’s nothing romantic about it — she 
averts her eyes, and walks past me three times with eyes on the floor, and
she retreats to another corner of the hookah lounge, and
pretends I don’t exist.

She saw the slit wrists; the schizophrenic madness consumed like cheap absinthe; saw the nightmares, the cold sweats at 3AM, the absence of anchors in kaleidoscopic storms; saw the way I actively battled the passive atmospheric pressure
that weighed me down;
saw the hangman’s chains tightening around my neck
at the speed of anarchic sound.

Honey, loving you felt like putting a stylus on a
vinyl phonograph;
photograph of summer, and we shook the Polaroid until
the endless bummers separated and faded into the past 
like electromagnetism in a 

We choreographed an eight month dance, and
I watched you pirouette, body like an hourglass, while
the sands
suffocated the bottom half; and

as we fucked the whole thing up
one grain of silicone
at a time,
I observed the impending supernova
like a

Honey, loving you
was ultraviolet

and I just
want to
talk to you
about those Tarantino movies

Willie Watt

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Man of the Year

Pupil of
and I’m stripping this carcass
the bones.

They say home is where the heart is,
but these scarlet vessels
to go.

And I’m an animal when it comes to pleasure or pain,
a cannibal composed of incompatible names,
but I swear to god,
you’ll know my name
before the twilight ends and the apocalyptic proclamations

despite the cataclysmic games.

My narcissism has its own power and flame, and
I’ll ride this ego-train
into nighttimes without a hint of
shame; point
the interior acclaim
at the focal points and watch the fireworks explode like

Just give me
the time and the place
and I’ll
systematically subjugate this
beautiful fallen
to a new definition of pain.

I’m the man of the year,
so shake for me, goddammit.

Give me your fears,
and I’ll give you
a new

Willie Watt