The Best I Never (really) Had

Six days
without a poem.

Magnum opus
on the back-burner.

I fucked her over the dresser,
and when I cleaned up the mess
two days later
your old love letter
had surfaced
to the top
of the pile.

Brutal irony,
and I wonder
how many similar escapades you’ve experienced since the flood took our memories away
on rainy day
currents.

Surrogate retrograde, and
Venus
cries with celestial
goodbyes
as the ultraviolet
assaults a city you no longer frequent.

Frequencies vibrating
at dangerous levels, and
we’re both embracing
the impending
black holes without our bulletproof vests.

I’d wish you the best,
but we’ve
both already
had it.

Willie Watt
05.16.17

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

 

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

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

ME.

It’s funny.

I’ve written something
about all of you, and
sometimes
I painted you in an unflattering hue, while
other times I grasped reality
and made you better.

But,
alone with these ink and lipstick-stained letters, is
it too much to want someone make 
me 
live forever?

Inscribe my essence
on quintessential endeavors, and
be sure to cleverly
reconstruct
the excess.

I’ve had so many naked chests
as headrests,
but
goddamn it baby,
lately I’m prime-grade
Americana
dispossessed of nostalgic
prima-donas;
a work
of postmodernism
enshrouded
in verdant
marijuana; and

I need a poem about me
to make it through the
darkness,

now that she’s gone,
and we only hearken
reality
after the surreality
has sunk its talons

into synesthetic
battalions,

and the battles
they never could have

won.

Willie Watt
4.13.17