LIFE IS A RUN-ON SENTENCE AND YOU’RE A MISPLACED SEMICOLON

never thought i’d be here
listening to punk rock
and writing sonnets.

flew to saturn’s rings
on the propulsion of
second-hand
bottle rockets.

turned my pockets
inside out
and
sat in silence.

internal clockwork
keeping time
with each act
of mental violence.

i tried being something else
so many times, but
every new smell
filled my mouth
with revulsion.

you told the story a different way, but
writers get the last word
on the day 
our collective fabrications
embed meaning
onto the cultural imagination.

satanic expatriation, and
we revel in
inky darkness
until the light eclipses elongated shadows.

hallowed be thy
sweat-stained
battle with nighttime.

i will live a thousand re-appropriated 
lifetimes, and
you’ll still have
become

nothing more than
smoke and blood

and sun-soaked
memory.

Willie Watt
05.07.17

 

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