Plenum

if there can be nothing
between spaces,
why are there so many 
intermediate phases
in this makeshift
narrative?

you may have been the best thing to ever happen,
but
I’m still a fish out of imperative
water.

sawed-off shotguns aimed squarely
at the bloodshot eyes
of
childhood martyrs.

barges set adrift
on oceans of tarmac
and rubble.

we count dystopias
in increments of prime numbers
and
measure their frequency 
by the 
reoccurring 
nightmares.

Stare at the stalagmites
long enough
and 
it all starts to look
like
teeth.

Willie Watt
10.16.17 

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Fear in a Handful of (angel)Dust

Tribal psychedelia.

Empirical claims
made in the context
of nascent
urban archetypes.

Oscillating distinctions
battling for supremacy
in post-Jungian
synchronicity.

Nightmarish complexity
that defies description.

I remember my crippling fears
in the afterglow
of unconscious battlegrounds.

Videogame ultrasounds, and
we’re pregnant
with bulwark banalities.

Transcendent minutiae, and
we choose the outcomes
without understanding the finality of our actions.

Passive revolutionaries
waiting for the world to burn,
experience rebirth,
or both,
in
no
particualr
order.

Willie Watt
08.14.17

Holocene

I took the lessons you taught 
to heart,
but only after you were gone
did I turn it into action.

You’re the least expensive
habit
I ever developed,
and maybe that’s why I got addicted so quickly,

and why,
even after all the cigarettes and whiskey,
I’m still trying to replicate
the high.

So long
and goodbye
to yellow brick roads.

I’m finally
paying
the toll
for my
arrogance.

Willie Watt
08.08.17 

 

Dear Alice, the Rabbit Hole’s Out of Gin and the Liquor Store is Closed

Pregnant with
ill-conceived 
ideological inertia.

Snort the kaleidoscope, and
chalk it up to a lesser version
of systematic misuse.

Just smoke the damn cigarette, darling;
nobody wants to hear about your daddy issues.

Imbibe the poison, and
select a delusion to foster;
we’re a generation without God, so
we all grew up in fatherless homes.

(Son-kissed sangria
and
holy spirits.)

Saturate the addendum
in nuclear ambrosia, and
barricade the enclosure.

You’re a page full of ellipses
in a book about closure, and
I still remember the way we fucked
and
fucked each other over.

We’ve bolstered our immunities 
to the precipice of disbelief; 
and you look at me with malice and seethe
as I write, “dear Alice,
Wonderland ain’t all it’s cracked up
to be.”

We’re all just drinking and smoking and pretending
as we await
an apocalypse of endings;

but I’ve got a front row
seat
to the gun show, and
I could use a 
tan
anyways.

Willie Watt
08.07.17

 

Bottle Rockets and Shooting Stars

Even though
the lights have become
mercurial,
and

the effervescent act
remains empathic,

the future without you
looks increasingly 
ectoplasmic.

Primordial elasticity
administered endermic
despite passionlessly   
lackluster performances.

Tourniquet tightened in accordance
with nonconformist 
manifestos.

Abhorrence within lungs,
like asbestos
reveling in punk-rock forest nettles.

When the dust finally settles,
if you see me from afar,
I hope it looks like bottle rockets
and shooting stars.

I’d still
take you all the way
with me
if I could.

If you’d let
me.

Willie Watt
07.18.17 

 

Digital Breakdown

High as Eden and whiskey-tinged.
Ego singed and naked.

Cloudy sky obscures
misty-eyed
gibbous.

Cut the ribbon and watch
the auriferous
confetti.

Asymmetrical progression retrospectively candy-coated
and classified as parabolic
erotica.

Digital breakdown
scored to lo-fi
indie electronica.

I say: “it’s gotta be more than a photograph;”
and
you say: “take the needle off the phonograph; ignore the mirrors long enough to take a breath.”

Your ghost is all I’ve got left, and you say: “give it a rest, baby;” 
but it’s hard when
I’ve been such a fucking mess, lately.

Call me crazy, but
I’ve become convinced 
of
majesty and apathy
in roughly equal measure. 

Paradoxical tether
and
its the
ugliest
prettiest
thing
I ever made on
my own.

Willie Watt
07.06.17

Sober

Two days outside obligatory parameters, and
you’re sober
for the final stretch of tarmac.

Everything is slower. You notice
things
you didn’t used to, like
the desert grass
wilting under triple-digit Texas summer, or the ink making neat urban hieroglyphics on the page, or the herculean contrivance it takes to not look someone in the eye when turning that particular corner. But, of course, she didn’t look at you, and you were too afraid to run up to her and grab her arm and say hello, and now it feels like that one moment of cowardice and indecision has caused everything that
came after.

Sober, it all feels like puppet theatre. Like, if everyone would just slow their heart rate for a minute and look up they could pluck the strings out of the air, severing the tendrils that connect subconscious algorithms and logarithms and synaptic electricity to the body without their consent.

Sober, you wonder when last you weren’t a plaything of time and kinetic energy and reflexive ego; when last you made a decision unbound by automatic processes and instinct.

Sober, you realize how much you still love her, and how there’s nothing you can do about it now the cards have been dealt and inevitable hypnosis has become indelible beyond the veil.

Willie Watt
07.03.17