my body.

my body. my body wants water but not to drown.

my body. my body wants food, sustenance, nourishment. meat and potatoes. but I keep feeding it high fructose corn syrup soliloquies. matinees of monosodium glutamate. filler. slop ingested, digested, re-purposed.

my body. my body wants sex and revelry and love and to just be fucking left alone.

my body. my body wants sleep wants sleep wants sleep,
more than anything, but is ashamed of the desperate need.

my body wants companionship, company, birds of a feather, soul mates, lovers, friends, family, anything other than dying alone. but my body. my body demands isolation. isotope migrating towards a half-life of decay.

my body. my body had to go to go to go, but wonders what it would have meant to stay.

my body. my body is walking
breathing
disarray.

my body. my body can imagine living any way except the way it swings and sways in ultraviolet,
internally violent,
invisible ways.

my body. my body is not okay. wonders if it ever really was. ever really could be. ever maybe will be.

my body. my body tells me time can’t be bought or defeated. deflated or cheated of its ominous signs. screams in my ear it can’t be reworked, restructured to a pleasing rhyme, or otherwise brought to pay for its crimes.  

my body. my body fails to grasp the emergency of existence.

my body generates frictions it can’t explain.

my body is afraid. afraid of yesterday and today and tomorrow.

my body loves and hates and changes its many interchangeable faces. changes its facets and features. my body. my body eats and shits and dies and tries to live in the meantime. my body tries to rhyme, tries to get away with obvious lies, tries to succeed, tries to stay sane, fails, impales itself on impossible dreams. my body. my body dreams and dreams and dreams but never succeeds in capturing the fleeting glittering glimmering light.

my body. my body tries and tries, but my body is a solipsist, naturalist, tragic realist, surrealist, romantic. fanatic addicted to patterns and fallacies.

my body. my body is every actuality and beautiful lie that ever whispered itself into existence.

Willie Watt
2.5.15 

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