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

city off a hill

we sit silent      like prayers.

           buildings like    lightening bugs.

i left   a poem     on the fridge    for you.

i want   to scream         at you, but i don’t         know you.

          thank you         for taking         me       in

          you have to clear it all out.

                               like that?

home   on speed dial

       tethered                       like hope.

i’ve been told               that you’re                    listening

       i don’t understand        why

there’s so little             natural             light.



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

Surrogate retrograde, and
cries with celestial
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