“If I ever do something like that, kill me”

I found it strange
When the world didn’t change
The few that knew you were shifted
Yet everything else kept moving

But now it all seems so stale

I never thought I’d be the one to lose you
The healthy
Full of life
The older
It should have been the other way around
But I guess the world had other plans
Or maybe you were just too much for it

You were unlike anyone I have ever known
And maybe you were a threat to this insanity
We run around calling ‘society’

I still think about the conversations we’d have
You so certain in yourself
So god damn certain you’d be able to change this place

And you had
You never thought it was good enough
But you changed everyone you came in contact with
Whether you knew it or not
You were genius in your words

I couldn’t come to terms that you were gone
But I have come to accept reality
As much as I tried to erase this event
I’ve seen too many go down that unhealthy road
Of non acceptance

So I’ve made an agreement with the universe
I will accept that you are gone
But I will never forget how you’ve changed me
And will always remember the last thing I heard you say

It’s like you knew it was our last conversation we would ever have
I don’t like to think of it that way
But you always had a way with words


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

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,

Willie Watt


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
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
the toll
for my

Willie Watt


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

Pregnant with
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
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
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
to the gun show, and
I could use a 

Willie Watt


Bottle Rockets and Shooting Stars

Even though
the lights have become

the effervescent act
remains empathic,

the future without you
looks increasingly 

Primordial elasticity
administered endermic
despite passionlessly   
lackluster performances.

Tourniquet tightened in accordance
with nonconformist 

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

Willie Watt


Digital Breakdown

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

Cloudy sky obscures

Cut the ribbon and watch
the auriferous

Asymmetrical progression retrospectively candy-coated
and classified as parabolic

Digital breakdown
scored to lo-fi
indie electronica.

I say: “it’s gotta be more than a photograph;”
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 
majesty and apathy
in roughly equal measure. 

Paradoxical tether
its the
I ever made on
my own.

Willie Watt


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

Everything is slower. You notice
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