The Here and Now (and everything in-between)

In my dream
I sit in a sparsely populated
auditorium;

and on the stage
in my dream
the thespians perform the dream
I’m in;

and the audience
in my dream
witnessing the dream I’m in
all hold a green and yellow booklet
of scenes,

and the audience
in my dream,
watching the performance of my dream,
are all dressed in
neo-victorian, steampunk
formal wear.

and the audience are
all pigs – Orwell’s hallucination
watching the postmodern paradox
of my existence.

Symmetry is just a word,
and closed-ends
just a sentence,
in my dream.

I
have given up
on trying to wake up

anymore.

Willie Watt
9.30.15

Another Hedonistic Soliloquy

I would write 
another excessively hedonistic

love poem,

sign it with whiskey stains
and call it my special brand of gin-and-toxic
opus,

but I’m no good at 
swimming in the lies
or metaphysical opiates,

and even the nihilistic revels
meant 
everything to me.

You can’t cure
a romantic
of his inevitable
destruction.

Willie Watt
8.24.15

checkered hats.

never a defining
phrase
or word
or term;

not buoyant
not elegant
not principled.

no literary awning
supporting rambling hypotheses,

no adjectives for this
ferris wheel i’m on.

carnival from dusk
to dawn, to conclusions leapt to,
and finalities drawn;

from checkered hats
to jonah’s straws,

the belly of the beast
does not digest its

denizens.

slabs of soul-shaped venison
left to cure in the
wind
forever,

until decay and entropy
extradite us

from our self-indulgence.

Willie Watt
8.10.15

Ouroboros

sweeping corners,
like smoke descending balustrades
and country borders.

borderline transcendent
but bound to
corporeality and sentience.

no escape just yet.

maybe it’s the house 
that’s haunting the ghost,
after all,

and my phantasmal
sabbatical 
has thus far been all

twisting abstractions,
bending portraits,
schismatic hallucinations,
and
the occasional elation

to induce complacence
with the
paradox.

Willie Watt
7.4.15