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

Well, if you must know…

To the tune of six hundred American dollars,
they spun and turned their collars up, the parlor junkies.
They wore on their feet shoes so clunky
that one almost felt sorry.
How, after all, can such tragedies
be allowed in this, the best of all possible worlds?

Wind came a-churnin’ like a churlish beggar
in baggy pants. The dance continued,
as did the sale of liquor on Sundays,
much to the chagrin of the churchgoing crowd.
They squalled so loudly that they garbled
the content of their message.
They may as well have been pulling steel wool
from their mouths.

A crowd was gathered in the ballroom,
all of them brandishing hot irons
and cynical cartoons. Some called it a boon.
Others took to their hot air balloons
and were never seen or heard from again.
I was already wending my way through
the labyrinthine halls of that piping hot palace,
seeking the solace of someone or other’s bedchambers.

Clamor covered and smothered the event.
‘Twas a fine time to repent,
though nobody could quite remember
the protocol for that. All was overkill,
spilled guilt and hot flashes.
Splashes of a wounded sunset
crept through the window.
Of these, none took notice.

-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 

 

Hate

and I’m back to
repeating mantras.

morning’s brutal emptiness, and
we’re writing about the agony
without
commas.

all these crystalline harbingers
of impending drama,
but I’m the only actor on the goddamn
stage.

lately I’ve consummated flashback reveries
with black-out rage;
trapped in cages of carnivalesque hatred — and I
hate to say it,
but I wake up every single day
drunk on
bitterness.

liver-drowned swimming pools,
and the hate is
fucking gasoline
without ethanol.

I took away your breath
and all you wanted me to
become — and I’m sorry about that. but

your retaliation outweighed my accidental attacks
so disproportionately
that
the scales
are finally tipped in my
grotesque favor.

barely legible anger, but
I promise my
mistakes
were honest.

sauna-hot
fuck-ups, but
your vengeance is an ice-cold
hornet’s nest.

forgive the forced rhymes, but
my chest is beating so hard I’m hallucinating
the days
before I almost let you
save me.

baby, don’t hate me
for coming around,
despite everything
we did.

I never meant
a word of it
anyways.

Willie Watt
4.13.17

 

translation

language of eyes
we don’t meet.
a finger taps finished wood.
patience is seeing
everyone around you
find their way
to the exit.
energy transforming
into new
languages
to be rehearsed
behind closed doors.