Anomalous Evolution

I am, 
a rocket ship in 
reverse position,

the cricket chirp 
in a worship service
of mean spirited wisdom.

I am,
the warm breath
tickling bearded necks
and the cold they hold
as fugitives,

the soft kiss
on barren cliffs
of lust, musket powder, and universal distrust.

I am,
the grain of sand playing
whack-a-mole with stars and their 
love-siphoned dunes of land,

the speck of dirt 
in bespectacled eyes
forcing hegemony from the hands
of titled slips of cubicle paper
granted authority despite their origins as primordial forest vapor.

I am,
the tank of gas
inching towards final destinations
of decomposition and the spacial gaps
between empty re inscription and math,

the booming shout of complacence
followed by agents of productivity
and lack of patience;
the need-it-all fire of conspiracies
toppling the stilt-laden havens of free masons and hatred.

I am,
at war
for such a long time.

The mind of a magician 
mixed with manic depressive predispositions;
open sesame ushering
open season
on deserted vestiges in need 
of conceptual vasectomies.

We impregnated the heavens with haphazard, 
thankfully pre-Lazarus,
irreversible turntables.

Our seed
is an endless desert of failure and need,

and though you’ve evolved,
as you must,
into a jackal masturbating to the
sound of cackling fires and malpractice,

bitch, I’ve turned from fleshly weakness
to a cactus
knee deep in survival’s
proverbial Tractacus

and my roots were made
for wastelands
like these.

Willie Watt


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