To an Editor Regarding (My) Abject Disinterest for Short-Form:

I was never one
for bending, just
because the wind blows.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.


The Seven Deadly Sins

A cautionary tale, to you
who know what I am
I am here to tell it

I remember a time
when I was lost to bitterness, and
despair had claimed
the lot of all
that I held

I was in agony
that I, myself
am hopeless to escape
the withering construct
of whom
I imagine myself
to be,
torn amid throes
in the savage weal of
undirected thought

sapped  in the snares
permissible by depravity
a known
defiler of virtue,
corrupter of pure
innocence, a harbinger
of change,
that whomsoever touches me
shall forever be
in part to my influence
that I am an elegant
of deceiving liars

with the most terrible bite
of all
do you remember when
I told you that I died,
or nearly died, my body lay
as my mind
was torn to pieces
too deeply to ever be the same
again. I killed myself
over, and over
in the wallows of pity.
Damnable creature

only by the grace of disgust
was I able
to shame myself
from the voluptuous haunts of gorging
in festival carnality

An infant
dreaming in the sensory cradle,
adrift in a storm, and
becoming increasingly aware of
the rising turbulence that
swells to crash against me,
to choke the air from my lungs
in waves of unbreathable murk,
folding in over, burying me deeper
into nothing,
cut from my cosmic swing
alone, and powerless to resist
the chill grip of fear
in this unfathomable eternity

A seed
among a multitude of seeds
in an infinite current
waiting for
time to arrive
so that I may grow an individual
into the rancor
of slave bondage
lesser forms

do you remember what I said
of love
from the first moment
of forgetfulness, a
curse begins to work its dread
into the deep, mindless spaces
where excitement and
the shock of orgasm
ought to be kept pure, between
two lovers
wrapped in arms, with
the intent to heal,
to draw in close
the one you love
to protect, to keep from pain,
is to manipulate the embrace
to abuse
I love you, and for that
I am trying to be complete.
Even in darkness
there is salvation
through touch
sensitivity to blunt form,
hard edges, sound,
a vivid overload

I told you I had found myself
a shadow
to hide behind
as though a child
playing at ghosts
in bed sheets
only, I was real
to take in hand, these
loose lengths of new skin, to
clothe a monster
to spook the unsuspecting
with a panicked fright

to yet have more than
that I could completely invoke
my form, from fantasy
to watch
from behind the mask
as fear-stricken faces
turn inside out
trying to apprehend
my magnificent horror.

treasures are expensive
beyond the obvious
they are beautiful,
cherished, and
in that
their weight
a terrible
sacrifice to purchase,
to expend
more than the measure

of ones tendency
to instead pursue desire
to advantage
while not compromising
any holdings
akin to learning
how to suit a lie
to situation

in sedentary comfort
in tangles of agony
the erotic obliteration
of unspoiled pleasures
conclusionary death
in illusion of
opulent design

bathed in deprecation
a spiral
lathed with hideous reflections
of self devouring, self
a hunger beyond mere want
to replace the absence of satisfaction
with momentary fullness
ward against starvation
even to reduce
oneself to gorging
on the viscera

in adherence to the
understanding that if
one should fall, or stumble
it is to be maintained
whilst uprightly rooted
firmly set,
stolid, one with
learned perception of dignity
that less thereof viciously
rendered: indignant, unworthy
of entitlement to criticize

to chase the devil
from sight, even
if it leads one
to an early grave
the indomitable fury, summoned
at insignificance, until
even a forgettable notion
becomes a victorless battle
one, at swords length
with self

spend extravagance on another
to curry the favor
of a blush
and redouble then, the
whilst spinning a web
designed to manipulate
the target
into surrendering power
lest the spider discard
a valueless carcass.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.


a singular act of barbarism
ends the long, horrific episode
of my adult life

I do not think it should take
a great detective to
deconstruct the scenario

a portraiture,
torn around the edges
with the evidence of a struggle

I will have been careful, of course
not to leave any epithelials of any kind
there will be no fingerprints

with which to give away
my identity
and thus, the game

additionally, the body will not
be displayed, though this is
primarily to avoid arousal

criminal pathologists, as I understand,
believe crime to be linked
with sexual fulfilment

a leftover scrap of
freudian psychology; seedling
in the hindbrain

there will be no mistakes, no
letters sent to taunt the authorities
no accomplices, and no clues

to create with such macabre detail
seemingly manifested from thin air, a scene
of ritualistic precision; the climax of horror

an incarnation of evil would leap
into the minds of whomsoever observes
my terrible beauty, my gift

as monstrous as pure, my love will inspire
through study: the want to replicate my design,
and thereby yolk the world with my shadow

in their need to understand this new reality
parallel to their own
they too will create fantasy

one that they will defend
even should they knowingly feed their newborns
to a hungry wolf, to think themselves sane.

flesh of my flesh, eternally yours

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

Of Thistles, Thorns, and Other Defensive Mutations

as a poet
I feel obligated
to inform you
sir, or madam reader
there is no serenade
betwixt moonshadow, and
morning din
no symphony amid the
romantic picturesque
though I wish there were
a colorful panoply
to look upon
so, there it is
moments careen into one another
like so many dull-grey commuters
smack, traffic jams
and we do our best to make sense
of it
all the glib nonsense
compressed down to
anecdote reconstructions
it takes more heart, perhaps
to leave it plain

one late night when
my gout
had pained me less enough
at least that I could take a walk
for fresh air
3am to a nearby 24-hour
convenience outlet, I
had enough money
to spend on orange juice
and cigarettes
the shopping portion of my trip
would have taken all of five minutes
were it not for
the cashier blithely grinning
like some love-lorn imbecile
we exchanged “good day’s”
I, begrudgingly, he
with that vapid comprehension
I envied him his nonprescription drugs
a passing thought
shaken loose
outside by the garbage can
removing that ridiculous plastic
static cling to fingertip, nuisance
my countenance betrayed me
a smile
which as fate would have it
a woman caught a glimpse of, and
she then offhandedly remarked
something to the effect of
how it seemed that I was having
an evening as much like hers
to which I aped
a non-reply “maybe”
from beneath a hooded scowl
that prompted her to laugh
then I remembered
how liquored kisses taste, sour like
piss and barstool ashtray gingivitis
sweat glands dripping alcohol
without another word
I turned
on my heel
no loathing today
I’ll take
my suffering in stride.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

Folie à deux

you claim to hold
in me
a reverence
even as you
waylay my foot path
with trifling expectation

what more is there
to feed you, that
the worm you set upon
my wisdom
has not chewn to a
cavernous hollow?

contented, in
my partisan portion
hands clasped together
yours, and mine
side by side
your anima suddenly excited
drawing hurried attention
if to produce
a reaction, from me
to reinforce, within you
an understanding of comfort
that I am mutually invested
even this you will intrinsically distrust.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.