:)*

Here I am again
on the floor;

locked doors and circuitous impulses;
floating away from physical,
literal,
manifestations of my humanity.

Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Dying to the soundtrack
of guitars gently weeping,

princely ascension
disembodied from didactic
meaning.

I’m stealing glances at myself
in
auriferous mirrors.

Gold turns to blood,
blood to ash,
ash to color –

I’m stunning
motherfucker

but I’m dying
like all the rest

and there’s this horrible
feeling in my spinning head

that tells me it’s coming sooner
than anyone expects.

The past is a
rose-tinted
massacre

and I’m scared of sobriety,
stagnation,
and rescued lives.

Life buoy
derived
from capsized vessels

and the words are less than iron
when the fire burns hotly
enough
to dissipate
every recourse.

I love her still
but I’m
ungrateful

for all the still photographs
of agony.

Why do we try so fucking
hard
to escape the synesthetic apathy

when the only final strategy
was always
absolute escape.

I want to have my dream-stained
cake
and murder it

too.

Willie Watt
12.7.15

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