Exhibit: A

I know that you would
say little else about me,
other than
that I am a hamster
capable of ideological
self-worship
Still,
an amorous rodent,
a worm, indecent, and foul

for even though
the God I grow, venerated
colossal, gleaming
in my mind’s eye
significant

I am here
in ejaculate stained
tatters
encouraged by persecution

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

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Egotistical Madmen

Ancient Pyramid Mysteries
who built Stonehenge?
What is truly fascinating
about a secret?

Nazis in the White House!
propaganda in print
in the airwaves
on the television set

the voice of fear,
fear that we are dying
insignificant, human species
meat eating parasite

What are we?
Aliens, Gods,
the neighbour across the hall
down the street
nobody
particular

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

Affirmation

I am important
I am significant
every day I get myself
together, and
out the door
I am aware

I hear the idiots
jawing at each other
in common parlance

I see the able,
feebled by frustration
I have a heart

each evening
I correlate my thoughts
in order
to communicate
I have a mind
no one does this
for me

I must, therefore
I am

and what
will I do
with it?

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

Chrysalis

Should I begin
by stating the date,
and time, should I
explain that I have
feeling? Should I
cry into my soup about
angry, depressive vices?
Should I deny
my emotional antennae, or
that I am
susceptible to influence
feigning strength
from behind a mask of
inner depth that
no one understands, but
this isn’t why
I write
in cryptic non-descriptions,
counter-intuitively
to present myself as
a codependent lover
on the fringe
with lone wolf
wrist cutter
tendencies, developing
tangled contradictions, and
black magic conjured puppets
to eviscerate and confuse
through backwards rhetoric?

Novice poets are
a tragically uninteresting
group, however
I want to tell them that I
understand. As an amateur
myself; from this, I’ve grown, as such,
my adolescent dungeons
have matured
as well

and no one cares.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

Popcorn Lung

electronic cigarette,
vaporizer,
replacement for
the cancer stick
not a
quitters crutch
such as: the patch,
the gum, Wellbutrin,
will power, or
cold turkey
another
consumer market
another
symptom treatment
another
coffin nail

Carson smoked on T.V.
everyone did
back then, which may
have been
a post-depression-ism,
until they finally linked
lung cancer directly to
Phillip Morris,
and pulled tobacco ads
from comic books, and as
we became more
politically conscientious
warning labels were added
though, that only fueled
the Shit Happens
90’s counterculture
which we perversely followed
to our now
21st Century agnosticism
forsaking reason for
indulgence

we wash our hands clean
in dirty water

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

*“Popcorn lung is a serious lung disease that is not reversible and difficult to both diagnose and treat. Medically, popcorn lung is actually known as bronchiolitis obliterans. It is a serious disease with a connection to the artificial butter flavoring, diacetyl. A volatile organic compound, diacetyl is a yellowish, green liquid that has a buttery flavor. It is naturally produced in alcoholic beverages and is used as a food additive. It was commonly used in butter flavoring for popcorn which is how the term ‘popcorn lung’ came to be.”

*Exerpted from:

Popcorn Lung (Bronchiolitis Obliterans)

Matt McConnell-TECCR

Musings

It’s morning now
pre-noon: something,
I haven’t bothered
to check
I’ve been up
all night
streaming Netflix, to keep
from dreaming
stranger things
than this:
the other day, for instance,
an article on
my Facebook feed
caught my eye
I won’t bother you
with the details, as
I only read
the headline, which was
something to the effect of
A runny nose may actually be
brain fluid
leaking out, I thought
“Gods
the Enquirer journalists
are up to their usual tricks,
either that, or,
the world is lousy with
paranoid hypochondriacs.”
There is so much nonsense
floating around to
filter out, it’s strange,
and stranger still to be a poet in
the Information Age
reading Byron, and all his
stuffy gloom. He bores me
but I love
the smell of old books
All the worlds a stage
as Shakespeare said, yet
in those days
a poet was either
a scoundrel, or a beggar.
Which reminds me of
the original meaning for
Lunacy.
In pre-Freudian times it meant
a kind of moon sickness
where the afflicted
was thought to be
possessed of madness, &
his ranting fits
were a danger to the
civilized, thereupon
as treatment he was
to be tied to a tree,
a post, or any immovable
object of the like, and
there remain until
he calmed, or they eased
the poor man’s pain
by death, of course.
Though we now know
what a fugue state
really is, thank you Freud.
I, myself, am not a Christian
but I would like to thank
their God for Atheists,
however only in that I
appreciate any group
that refuses to subscribe to
Holy dogma, though
atheism in itself is
a backwards practice, for
when one claims not to believe
in God, One must first
acknowledge God,
how else then, by this
assertion, can One claim
not to believe?
I prefer instead
to believe in myself.
Scrolling down my
WordPress reader, I’d like
to remind the lot of you
that poetry does not
a rich man make.
Or perhaps you’ve met
more fat, starving artists
than I? Remember
age, and maturity are not
synonymous.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.

Banter Isn’t Cute

who is there to impress
at 3 a.m., 7-11
they walked in
arm in arm, as though
they owned the place
and they bantered
with each other, in a
loud and obvious way
that was clear
they thought they
looked cute together,
He
in acid-washed tight
jeans, and running shoes,
long sleeved T that covered
the nape, a boyish mess
She
in ankle boots, black tights,
long brown summer hair
streaked with something
youthful, black leather
turtleshell purse
and olive pea coat,
gods know what else
underdressed for mid December,
image whores,
it was a social dance
He looked me up and
down first
it was his masculine
duty to perform
a threat assessment check,
I ignored,
stood ambivalent, and stared
instead at the Subway sandwich
menu, then She
took her turn
perhaps to assess her
relationship, there are always
bigger fish
I cut a smirk, in my dirty
jeans and well worn hoodie,
toque and mitts,
and listened as He barked
his order at the immigrant
employee, “More of this,
he said,
less of that.” She cooed
at him and I thought to ask
them both
“Were you the ones
that drove up
in that busted-ass minivan,
early 90’s model Chrysler?
You know,
you have a headlight out.”
I decided instead
not to bother
Why show them a mirror
with which to see?
they will, or
they won’t, a couple
of self-entitled
boors.
I’m certain they glow
more brilliantly
than their friends.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.