Ode to Fuck-All (I-IV)

I.

Possessed with thoughts of
running away (again).

I was (am) so
tired
but I (want)ed to do anything but sleep
(anything but sleep);

anything but steep
my footsteps deeper
in the vacuous mire of
solar flares
and
guns for hire.

I’m a funeral pyre
waiting to burn,

and you’re the turn of another empty
century’s delusion
of fulfillment.

We’re so close to the sun
(pardon the Icarus reference)
but every spiritual deference
is empty enough to make
my artificial wings
itch
with anticipation.

II.

You’re
an esoteric chimera
and I’m anything
but
elated by the mystery.

III.

Don’t tell me the paradox
is beautiful.

Don’t tell me the two heads
of this monster
aren’t contradictory.

Don’t tell me death is
more than another
forgotten obituary.

Terrestrial literary restrictions
contradict every
self-prescription.

IV.

Death is the end
(the end)

and the end is starting to sound
so sweet
so sweet.

Darling,
I promise not to miss a beat

if you’ll teach me how to keep
this blink
from

lasting forever.

Willie Watt
1.24.16

 

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