perfumed persian snake charmers
stowed away in the sweat
of being discovered
in hookah incensed fantasies
of Solomon’s writhing concubines

kings of us all
they’ll say ’til they die
the end isn’t a hole
but a tunnel down
a ribboned hallway
palace in time

kick off your feet
jump chariots for the songbirds
lanterns to the feasting hall
to drink of vaults
bitter sting of the cherried
aging of treasures

lay in the palm press
veil of ashen
wind carried blossoms
chasing a snow fallen
vesper of feathers

kiss of the hot rush
tumult of senses
drowned in a dream-sick
seduction of silver skin
tongued at without
sipping inside

taken away from the rusting
cages to the gold-hewn
dreams of forgetting
the tourniquet fear flown
as rakes to bleed
down the divide

plant a root in this heart
verdant shelter from storm takers
plunging return
on boats to bear coin purses
sunken in rivers
swallowed down the abyss

a whirl of soup stirred
a mighty cauldron
circle of hungry mouths of night
black and empty
their stars are crying
at the long-necked spoons
too far areach from their draught

so, they send their wishes
up smoke rings
to the green dreams of youth
saddled leaping on tree frogs
nymphs songs on the air
toeing clouds beneath webbed feet
gliding as helicopter seedlings
to the onrushing ground

birth berries of madness
gilt stem-horns of flowers
thorns slicing the vessels
blood sacks of unborn

fall tethered to thin air
chimes ringing on weak ears
in the icy blue caverns
a chilling remote,
stabs at the conscious
begging to breathe in
breaking the skin sewn
lips over the throat

eyes fixed on the ceiling
above neck, body a-dangle
over the vacuum
that threatens to bite

teeth, weapons as secrets
that know every corner
every shadow of jealousy
every daggering lie
only now they dance to spend you
not the other way ’round
aimed at their intended targets
as sharpened fingers of truth

there’s no living here
in deaths merry head
among the god-addled hermits
hushed away in sea coral
caves without light

prayed to the gold sky
offered up the hounds of sorrow
if but to exchange the space
for a fever gone blind

the fight to defend a virtue
to the slobber-jawed sanitariums
in the milky stare whitewash
waiting to martyr for faith

in the prison wards of questions
hands crowned, and head lowered
touching the throne
pray one sign to give
meaning for torment, reason for
in this cold cell of stone

then the hull creaks in the
as if the timbers ache a spell
wresting wearied navigation
from the onlooking moon

as whistles blow and shouts drum
a halt commanding abruptly
march aboard unboarding
in the silence below decks
the ancients
are born.

© Emerys Watchel, (2015) 2016 All rights reserved.



women are not
majestic creatures
bathed in the power
of goddesses
they do not
take flight as doves
or light belltowers
with magic fire
please understand
I’m trying to be romantic
I wish to write the truth
young men are boys
possessed of a profound
fondness for themselves
in the way they wish
to make women move
at their touch
to hear women scream songs
to their devoted captors
and boys surrender willingly
to be mutilated
by predators
this exchange of wills
is a dance
with uncountable steps
though it ends
the same way
with fragility, and
the minstrel
tormented by
his muse

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Flat Earth Society

Last night I couldn’t sleep.
Partly my fault, or mostly. I
tend to blame sleep disorders
for my inability to unwind.
Which, admittedly, could be
ignorance on my part. Blaming
a symptom for a cause I
haven’t bothered to cure, but
I don’t like pills and sometimes
sleep deprivation does yield
poetic results.
However, there I was
laying in bed
YouTubing Forensic Files on my
cellphone. It’s a bit weird
when I think about it, you know,
falling asleep to murder investigations, or
MUFON Files, JFK assassination conspiracy theories,
or, as was the case last night,
Ghost Hunters. Which got me thinking,
then pacing, as is my habit when formulating
dialogue for a WP post such as this.
There always seems to be, in paranormal canon,
a house, seemingly steeped in local lore.
A death or two, an old hotel, apartment complex,
or a sanitarium -those always seem to be the
gold mines. Insanity and ghost activity
are intrinsically linked social patterns, like
intellect and drug use, but I digress.
Here’s the scenario: Family
moves to the country, possibly
to escape problematic inner-city etcetera,
or what have you, anyway
the children, being unfamiliar with the sounds
old houses make
begin to suspect that they are not alone.
The parents rationally presume that their
kids are simply adjusting to country life.
But then the Mom and Dad start noticing
strange things as well.
Typical things though, like: doors
that were locked are unlocked, cupboards
left open that were closed, or lights being on
that were off, that sort of thing. So,
they decide to consult the ghost hunter people.
This is the point where I apply
common sense ideas.
1) Supernatural, and Paranormal are interchangeable
theories. I say “theories”, because neither are
scientifically provable. Though distinctly different, i.e;
Supernatural deals with everything from God,
demons, spirits, entities, and or, otherworldly forces.
Whereas, paranormal deals with the phenomena, and
unexplainable interactions between the spirit realm,
and the physical. More simply, poltergeists are paranormal
by activity, even though they are considered supernatural
in origin. Or, God is a supernatural entity, and
His active force, is paranormal.
Supposing that’s true, I personally don’t agree
with either, however,
2) If it were possible to record activity across
planar existences, i.e; between the physical plane, and
the nonphysical, then Ghost Hunting would not
be considered pseudoscience, and Richard Dawkins
would probably believe in God.
In all likelihood, the truth is
3) Ghost hunting, or ghost detecting is singularly
dependent upon a person’s willingness to believe in
forces beyond human capability. Essentially
convincing a person to believe in
what they are already willing to accept.
I don’t know what the standard rate is
for a ghost hunting expedition, but those people
were robbed by common charlatans.
And hey,
it’s an entertaining spectacle, nonetheless.

However, when/ if we subscribe to it
aren’t we just contributing to the mass delusion
prevalent in today’s society?
Maybe I shouldn’t blame them for ripping off
those that are willing to be deceived.

Mind you, Hubbard wrote science fiction
before he founded Scientology and no one
seemed to mind.

“You don’t get rich writing science fiction.
If you want to get rich, you start a religion.”
~L.Ron Hubbard

was that thinly veiled contempt, do you think,
or unintentional irony?
Either way
roll the dice, pick your poison,
damned or not
you still have to live with yourself.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

The New Pornography

I want to be with you
this place
with all the laughing smiles
that I
we’ll tear the cover off this world
pull out the depraved and fresh,
and plug you into
sickness, girl

we’ll flip through the channels
to keep you glued
never know when nothing’s on
and I’m
we’ll over-sex your mind at youth
make you go out and want to wreck
your innocence
for something loose

wear you under, see you through
break you out, and doubt
that I
know you
little easy, oh so true
pump you full of drugs
and flesh you out
with new tattoos

death is kind and this is cruel
I almost feel like
giving back
control to you

you are my victim
never you
you’d never know that I am
all around
and in your room

I am your makeup and your hair
I am your magazine
I’m on your lips
and in your air
I am the boy you wish you knew
I am the plastic breasts
he wants to touch
instead of you

I am the God of what you do
I’m on the internet
the porno yet
to be YouTubed

and we’ll tear the cover off this world
drape your skin in depravity
and whore you out
for cash and pearls

you are the breath of something new
your style is all your own
and not some trash
I left for you
I’m in your blood and on your spoon
I am your fix and I’m the trip
that numbs your every move

I’ll never die and never lose
I’ll bring Hell to every
boy and girl
and Christian school

I want to be with you
this place
with all the laughing smiles
that I
we’ll sell your mother for her heels
we’ll stand upon her bones
to buy one get one Christmas deal

I’m the new religion of your dreams
I mail order minister
by catalogue and T.V. screen
I am the end of honest means
I’m there when nothing’s left
I am your children’s legacy

the new pornography is free
just get the latest 2.0
and sell your soul
to contact me.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

The Consumer Condition

I love the smell of
a fresh pot of coffee, don’t you?
it fills my senses
with whimsy
and fantasy
that Valdezian explorers
scoured the impossible
corners of the globe
to bring us
black gold
and I am a small part
of that great adventure
a small piece
of something bigger
Livingston was found
to sell newspapers
George Clooney donated $1M to Hope
for Haiti
so People Magazine could print
his big stupid face
on the cover,
for our benefit
maybe everything is manufactured
maybe these coffee beans
weren’t grown specifically
for my pleasure
love of money was
the root of all evil, all along
Hollywood is a syphilitic whore
and we’re all
festering in the blister
of designer ideals.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Busy Little Bees

I’m not lonely
I’m not bored
I have successfully removed myself
is all, and
it was easier than I thought
actually, I just
started saying
I now have fewer external interactions
though with that
less stress
in my opinion
they buzz my buzzer, and
ring my bell
“How have you been?”
“What are you doing
in there? Come out.”
“Tell us your secrets.”

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.


I’m against terrorism
in the form of gun waving
foreign ideal
but what of domestic terrorism?
how should I feel
when we publicize pederasty
use the Lord’s name to steal
when we fornicate for money
divide ourselves against each other
propagate racism
support hate-mongering institutions
wish for the death of our enemies
our human rights are human privileges
a legal system designed for the wealthy
we free the slaves
to make all men equal
to return everyone to bondage
in banana republic penitentiaries
when we are all at war
with God, with ourselves
with who we are
with how we love
with what we are taught
offer insurance plans
voting is a confidence scheme
the premiums go to the 1%
and the consumer class
idolizes the upper class
while hating
the poor
and we all know it
and do nothing

what is freedom?
what is terrorism,
to terrorists
are we able to recognize it,
is it always never us?

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.