market my ego
even though
the market demand
is regressing.
subsidize my masochism
and marginalize
it to table dressing.
interior complexity
and the crossbeams
are slowly
rotting away.
Willie Watt
10.13.15
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
Envy
i have never,
even once,
been cut out for this
shit.
Willie Watt
9.14.15
Baby, Don’t Let Me Down
There’s a room
filled with notebooks and old paper-
scribbles, words, mostly inane-
and sometimes I
feel insane
for trying so hard;
but I can taste how close I
am
to something resembling a payoff,
and I can’t go to sleep
now.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Willie Watt
9.10.15
Rock.
Greasy fingers,
but I just washed my hands.
Rumpled poster edge,
but I just sanded the corners
of my verisimilitude.
Hot tea and shisha
advocating chloroplast,
but photosynthesis doesn’t need a marketing campaign
to stay in business.
I miss you already,
and I swear that isn’t a
non-sequitur.
Willie Watt
8.26.15
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
Poker Face
and in the end,
i get that love was the postulate,
but darling,
sanity was my bargaining chip,
and i was all in
i was all in
i was all in.
Willie Watt
8.18.15
(original 10.7.14)
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
Pit and Pendulum
Tyler Durden,
the Oz behind my vapid curtain;
each boulder a nihilistic burden,
and it hurts to carry something so uncertain.
It hurts to care so much about
nothing.
Willie Watt
7.18.15
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
