Blood Puppets

Ya,
I’d prefer to play it cool, baby.

But,
yknow, this stately ventriloquism doesn’t look good on me.

And,
I’m still high, so fuck it; the girls
love it when I play that heavy metal shit
and make sure they’re
a get-on-my-level kind of bitch.

Antiquated models
flicker out like a wet match. At
long fucking
last
you’ve asked me to embrace the past
and fuel this crusade
on a wave
of red-hot
anger.

There’s no immediate danger, but
you might want to step back.

I’ve attacked these walls so many times, and
the blast radius isn’t known
for its pretty colors.

If you were any other
type of girl
we’d already be dancing to the proximity mine explosions.

Syncopated showmanship, but
there’s no balaclavas in the amphitheater.

I know its last minute, but your nighttime clothing
will have to suffice–but, baby, don’t
you dare wear white.

This is a fucking horror show
you’ve signed up for, and
we don’t discriminate
between
bloodletting animals.

Cannibalistic performance, and
the witches burn the pure ones
at the fucking
stake.

Monsters in the making, and
we’re all out of
silver bullets.

Willie Watt
05.09.17 

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

 

Poison Street

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
I tried to be support
And push us to better ourselves
Moving away from the things
That make us terrible people

I tried to do this with you
But two days and you were gone
Running back up to these poisons
And poisonous people
That you once said you hated

I wanted to start this with you
We were freshening our souls
And beginning something wonderful
Now I’m starting to believe you like the dark
The poison; The hate

You want the reckless and the terrible
The beaten and the stupid
I can feel it in my heart
You don’t want to tear away from it

You say you want this new life together
As you run as far away from it as possible

I want to help you and support you
In reaching these goals that have been set
For years this has been coming
But suddenly now it’s here
And you are nowhere to be seen

I feel betrayed and hurt
Because I trust you
Then I leave for a moment
And suddenly you’re back
To those old ways
Never staying sober
Long enough to care
Or remember our relationship
Or anything you want in this life

I’ve tried
And now I’m tired
Of worrying and feeling alone
Living this life we wanted
But now it’s just me here
While you run wild
In the streets you swore
We left behind

August Burns Dread.

cinematic equivalent
of a
broken record.

vinyl centrifuge
interpreted like the fucking bible,
but the investors
have resorted to post-structural academia.

i never needed a powerful external stimulant.
always content with chiaroscuro mirrors– but

the closer i get
to clearly-defined victory, awash in champagne and wine, i can’t
help but wonder if
the checkered finish-line
will live up to expectations.

i hate to say it,
but i’m no longer certain
it’ll be worth it
without you here to be proud of me, without you here to be in the crowd for me, without you here to shout at the clouds with me, without you here to silence the doubts for me.

outwardly i’m fine, but
inwardly
i
see you at every milestone i conquer, and i see visions of
the way things were in
august.

honest to god,
i never
wanted it
to be
like this.

Willie Watt
04.28.17

Punk Rock Medley in Five Parts

I: Falling in reverse down stained glass chasms;
incoherent iconoclasm but
we’re still not helpless.

Damned from the outset
but there’s enough individual output
to offset 
the broken and restless
breathless down in
Texas.

II: Fuck you, and fuck your friends while we’re at it.
Get up and dance like you’re
a goddamn
Joy Division
addict.

Past-life manic episodes
summoning satyrs that speak in tongues.

You fill your mouth with platitudes
and foam at the lips with self-serving
lies; tried and true
bullshit
like the radio pop scene — you
can say what you want, but motherfucker
you’ll never
be
me.

III: It’s such a shame
you had to go and
incite a panic;
disco balls in dilapidated attics, and
there’s enough fallout
to set the Geiger Counter
on fire.

Smoking asbestos
with a drug-store
cigarette lighter, and
we don’t care about the
unintended
consequences.

Look past the mosh-pit bruises and bad habits, and
we’re all just urban kids dreaming 
of
picket fences
and
authenticity.

Pierced the veil of
your prickly toxicity, and all we’ve got left to sleep with
are sirens from classical antiquity.

IV: Ya, I don’t care if you’re a
bitch, I don’t care if you’re the poison ivy
itch
between my fingers; I’d linger here
forever
for one more taste of your
poison.

Employment of all my coping mechanisms, but
the deterministic decision
to get fucked-up
night after night
hasn’t made anything alright; absences
correlated to a lack of abstinence, and 
I still see you in every
orgasm and drag
of absinthe. 

V: I think it’d be a little easier
if you’d just come out already 
and hate me; but lately
baby
I’ve been praying for the bitterness
to
save me.

Encage me in amber, and
stab me with your infected blades.
I hate the way you were always speaking
languages
I can’t read; you just
bury the turnstile
and hope 
no one
notices the
fucking
subterranean rumbles.

I’ve humbled myself 
a hundred times
for one
last shot
at dying in your apocalyptic earthquake.

Worst-case scenario
we’re just 
another
shitty 
punk rock anthem
without a
mantra
to ink
on bloodstained
forearms.

Willie Watt
04.27.17

 

The time it takes

The time it takes lets me down gently.
With fistfuls of lanolin and pocket knives.
There’s something to it, in the way
it moves me left to right then slightly left
before the next day’s dawn uprooting data.

Rockstar goes down virtually and easier.
The neck stifles its coughs with greater expertise.

Somewhere along the line is the sum
of our increasingly varied parts.
But this is a nonentity. Or perhaps a phantom
passing gas to other phantoms and then
laughing all the way to the bank of flowers
some artist put here during the ’90’s.
A firestorm in tow. I’d go where you went
but just to watch you leave in replay,
because I lack what’s called “balls.”
Other issues now presiding.

The kids all process leeches.

-r. miller

You (second stage mazes)

I’ve only
seen G(g)od in
reflective hues.

Only been religious 
when I woke up next to you.

I’m
calling down
fire and mistletoe– cadaverous
brimstone summoned in the style of satanic
tombstones.

Walk a mile burdened by graffiti-stained
millstones
and it all starts to
look sepia-toned.

Monochrome brick and mortar
but the aspect
ratios
look like single-camera
television
shows. 

Sitcom circuity,
and I’m insisting on 70MM
excess
for the run-and-go 
appellate courts.

Keep your eyes
wide 
fucking
open;
even when
it hurts
to see the

fallout.

Willie Watt
04.13.17