MeltWater

Something to talk about?

I’ve gotten the runaround
enough times
to know 
the precursor to passionate consummation
when I see it.

There was always a certain logic
to the way we stood there hypnagogic  
thinking about the million things we could discuss:

philosophy and art,
pop culture and the way we always barked up the
wrong fucking tree.

Three drinks deep, and
I’m smoking alone,
writing these poems
while oscillating satellites of sincerity and irony
ionize
within stylized verses
written at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

Abnormal spherocytes
dancing like occultic acolytes 
before
rituals of
sepia-toned Saturnalia.

Whiskey-bottle-shaped
regalia
delineating 
decorously lavish sentences drafted exclusively
in
sesquipedalia. 

I’m
bending over backwards
to satiate postmodern gods.
One wrong turn and its all pseudo-Freudian
anthropods;
pre-Cambrian bogs
teeming with prototypical
excursions.

In the worst possible version, we
sink into the curvature like 
nerve-receptors composed of ink and paper, and
I watch as the hyper-stylized 
nomenclature
devolves into acquiescent dispositions
to be dealt with
later on.

Songs of entropy
sung in baritone, but
the qualia
of the metronome is asymmetrically categorized
like a
blood-laden
honeycomb.

If I could parse the distance
between
elegiac idealism
and
millennial-imparted cynicism
I would already be dancing on the parchment-colored meridian; asking
all-knowing deities about the difference
between
amphibious states of mind
and ridiculous performances of well-timed psychological anteriors.

We’ve traveled farther than anyone before, but
we’re no clearer
on the meaning
between
eight-ball and cue-tip.

We,
every single one of us,
became obsessed with all-encompassing silver bullets;
so

hold onto the pin between teeth, and brace yourself
before
you pull it,
baby.

I’d hate to be the guy
who fucked you and left; but
even after all the self-aware
excess,
I’m just another collaboration of atoms and internet-obsessed cigarette smokers.

I’d be hopeful for something better, but
I don’t believe my own
metamodern rhetoric

just yet.

Willie Watt
06.19.17 

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