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


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

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
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,
I’ve driven a current of misplaced sincerity to

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

gallows humor, and
i’m disappearing into

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

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

i’ve reconfirmed my entropy, and
i’m trading it in

Willie Watt


I have always been a writer; to myself.

Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing.

I was mad, even depressed.

I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better.

You want to know why I’m not mad anymore?

I realized why I write, and it’s not for the approval of others. I write as an outlet, because on those nights, where I think my life is falling apart, somehow when it’s all down on paper it seems to ease the pain.

It seems simpler when it’s out there for me to examine. An overwhelming thought is bundled into a thin piece of paper.

I write because there is no one that can ever understand what’s going on in my mind and to spill it out on a page seems to be a better idea than keeping it bottled up inside to rot.

I write hoping that one day


it could reach someone in need.

Someone that needs to know they are not alone in their discomfort, and needs to know that people go through similar events that break their hearts and shatter their souls, but they live to see another day and the feelings pass.

I write because I pray that one day I can look back on these pieces of paper and feel like I’ve grown

and changed

and moved on

from the pain that once had me spewing mislead sentences, unforgivable language and poems that didn’t rhyme.

I write to feel comfortable in the madness that surrounds me.

I write to feel whole again; if only for that moment.


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
within stylized verses
written at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

Abnormal spherocytes
dancing like occultic acolytes 
rituals of
sepia-toned Saturnalia.

decorously lavish sentences drafted exclusively

bending over backwards
to satiate postmodern gods.
One wrong turn and its all pseudo-Freudian
pre-Cambrian bogs
teeming with prototypical

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 
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

If I could parse the distance
elegiac idealism
millennial-imparted cynicism
I would already be dancing on the parchment-colored meridian; asking
all-knowing deities about the difference
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
eight-ball and cue-tip.

every single one of us,
became obsessed with all-encompassing silver bullets;

hold onto the pin between teeth, and brace yourself
you pull it,

I’d hate to be the guy
who fucked you and left; but
even after all the self-aware
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

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
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
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


Coriolis inertia.

Tourniquet burdened
with blood-laden
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

Willie Watt