Scene (the only) 1

Drinking game:

Take a shot every time your defining
existential crisis
(even if not mentioned by name)
comes up in conversation with
a stranger.

We’re going to need a bigger bottle.

Impromptu celibacy,

there’s relative relevance
in belligerance
and cleverly avoiding intimacy
is a shameless form of masochism
turned picture frame.


Hey, you hear the one about the suicidal manic depressive who passed away?

He was a brilliant artist,
but he couldn’t substantiate his undisciplined snippets
with adoration
so he took a twelve gauge
and emancipated his brain
from its bone-marrow prison;

I’m told, that in life, he shuddered at the thought of
skin and bone entrapment.

I suppose he saw his life as some kind of fucked-up
Hemingway
re-enactment.

“Life’s better when one is not inundated with fleshly troubles,”
he wrote.

“Much less drama.”

Karma’s still a bitch, though;
even when you’re a see-through ghost;

transperacy is a gift for liars
and he has no tongue to pathetically bargain with destiny anymore.

Bartering with fate is a game for the living.

Ghosts?

Well, they find it something of a bore,
I suppose.

They are to the earth what we could never become
staring into vapid skies
and praying to hollow vestiges.


Legless investments

and the check
paying for our alchohol-and-dream inspired
restlessness
bounced.

The punitive effect

of our dimunitive
self-obsessed revelries
is we were never able to see
the forrest
for its
photosynthesis;

but we wouldn’t have it any other way.

We’re fading water droplets
but we’re not afraid
to die of old age
if it means we have time
for one last

really
fucking
good
poem.

Willie Watt
9/4/14

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