About That Drink

I’ve come a long way. All these circuitous short circuits
and postmodern illusions of grandeur
without point or purpose.

(i’m blue as a goddamn porpoise, and everything is tinged with involuntary hate)

Mirrors asking: why am I so surprised
that everything is cast in shades of gray? every

principle has decomposed
into past-participles and particles of uncertainty?

It wasn’t supposed to be this way;
but every day is a testament to the omnipotence of infinite
and disorganized osmosis,

and somehow my goal obsessed [theoretical] magnum opus
has brazenly become apathy.

Irony never suited me
as well

as I’d hoped it would.

Willie Watt



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