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

Undertow/Afterglow

managed to stay calm
until i saw
every single door wreathed in
flame.

pyrotechnics ablaze, and
the rats are scurrying for the tiny holes in the wall.

i don’t ask for much, but
you’ve got me
equal parts
punch-drunk
and
fucked-up
on spiritual impoverishment.

barbed-wire intoxicants
putting a sudden stop
to calisthenic overconfidence; but
my ego has enough ancillary depositions to fuel a small economy.

iconography recurrent, and,
ironically,
I’ve driven a current of misplaced sincerity to
cynical
beaches.

leeches in the water, but
we’re much farther
from land
than ever before.

i won’t ask you to
weather the storm with me, but,
proportionally speaking,
you’re more of an anchor
than any previous
alloy.

gallows humor, and
i’m disappearing into
blood-colored
afterglows.

undertow pulling us down, but
i’ll look you in the eye
while i drown
in sunset-saturated
ever-afters.

laughter at all the wrong moments, but
it’s alright because
you’re the only
atonement
still worth dying for.

i’ve reconfirmed my entropy, and
i’m trading it in
for
full
market
value.

Willie Watt
06.28.17

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 

Empirical Psychedelia

Apologies in advance
if its vulgar to write it down, but
I saw a girl today on a street-corner downtown
and her perfect ass reminded me exactly of you.

Passenger-side slideshow view
and
I’m watching the space between hometown nostalgia and second-base Austin regalia
disappear in lipstick colored highway paraphernalia.

I get that each return journey
buries me in remembrance of melancholy second-chances, but
I’ve weathered enough intertextual storms
to absorb the second-hand contraband
damage
to the liver.

Quiver of arrows, and
I’m no longer weaponless, even
when the cybernetic restlessness makes baggage claims
on my poorly administered acrobatics; poetic time signatures
suddenly pragmatic
despite the digitally idiosyncratic
apparatus; monochromatic absences, and
it’s starting to feel streamlined in an empirically vigorous way.

Stay for a while and watch the fireworks.

We’re burning empires
to try and understand
the underlying structures.

Willie Watt
06.15.17

Submarine

Coriolis inertia.

Tourniquet burdened
with blood-laden
reversal
of fortune.

Controversial urchins
glittering aqua and purple
in the afterglow.

Stowaway rhetoric
delivered apropos, and
all I
see are cotton candy clouds on verdant horizons.

I’d close my eyelids, but
I don’t want to
miss a second
of the revery.

You’re everything
I let slip away
the last time around, and
I’ll be damned if I drown
without first seeing the submarine meridian dissipating into dialectic sublimity

with my own
two
eyes.

Willie Watt
05.25.17