0.121

and your Blood Alcohol Content is probably,
like,
0.121,
or 
something
resembling every other day
for the
last stretch of hazy
co-dependence;

but you know what,
nobody asked you to check a box
to indicate
permanent residence
or
status as a temporary tenement
in the game of inebriated penitence.
and
fuck you,
i’m not penitent at all;

i’ve done no wrong
at all;
i’ve only played the game
of innocent wrongdoing,
and temporally implemented a historiographical
histrionic song.

I’ve played a postmodern game of Chinese
Checkers,
and i’ve ended up drunk
and determined
to
decimate
these throngs of
interlopers
                      before the long walk into
oblivion
                 eradicates
                     my violent protest
against
apathy; and

it was like we were begging for a time when it was all fire fire fire, and we could burn the whole fucking system to the ground, and no one could ever make us feel small, and no one could ever tell us what to do or how to live or how to fight or who to fuck or who to love or who to topple or what to create, and no one could ever fuck with us, not ever not ever not ever again.

Willie Watt
9.4.16

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