Heretic

Inebriated intellectual
watching the interplay between external and internal
movies.

The film is violent; cerebral riots in
the street,
and songs of lamentation echo from every
synaptic corner.

I held logic to my chest like a rosary. Watched
as poetry performed dialectic deicide—Nietzsche
laughing at the misinterpretation of celestial
oblivion and heavenly treason.

Seasonal variances notwithstanding,
I’m abandoning
any pretense of objective distance
within these crumbling
walls—hopeless requests to cherubic messengers of infrastructure and their portents of favor;

every molecular structure appealing to its better nature,
and crying out in embarrassment;

speaking the truth is the only remaining moral imperative,
and even as you label me a blasphemous heretic
I’ve christened this moment the part where I finally form the everlasting narrative.

Sorry that it isn’t all flattering,
but you shouldn’t have fucked a writer
if you didn’t
want
to
live
forever.

Willie Watt
02.20.17

 

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