I’m losing track of my principles
and precedents.

If you are divine,
a line of script written in the bible’s spine,
then Jesus Christ
you’re the old testament;

and if I were a moon.
then I’d be a crescent with swooning stars, devouring the night with my inky blackness
and pipe dreams of space flight and mars.

Musical pandemonium devoid of seasonal motifs
or notes
or melodies
or bars,

a treatise decreeing 
treason in large scale parsimony.

Bastions of deliberation intact,

concordant asserting math and music and words
as different representations
of a universal language unintelligible 
to those languishing in unjustified sanguinity.

You burn the paper,

and with it you burn the evidence
of my righteous anger;

you all relegate languor to an art form,

systematically snuffing out fires born in the stomachs
of wayward puppets rummaging through coveted
lightning storms.

You’ve torn the knowledge earned
by the masses in loads by the bucket.

Mass murder holds mass appeal
when the guillotine is composed
of disposable income
and glittering rubbish.

I would love to say that
I’ll be the one to hold the sons of bitches accountable,

but I’m touting the same anarchic,
emblazoned, obviously oligarchic
as my predecessors
and their experiential carcasses.

read every line of prose twice,
listen to every song until it transcends the barrier of time,

revel in gaudy pink-hued information until the perfect concrete details lose their ephemerality.

The reality is
every past solution has failed,

so I say we mount a new revolution
and sail into ink-imbued

Give me a horizon worth riding into
and I will be your loyal sailor
to the bitter end.

Willie Watt


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