Connected to The Conscious Cradle

in dream house familiar
subconscious decor furnishings
object manifest
table, lamp, wall hanger, rug,
seems real
no need to inspect authenticity
and
there’s the presence of
friendly beings
mother spirit, family, friend
welcomed to dream space
images downloaded from
tangible plane

here i explore creation
pilgrim experiencing new realm
again
for the first time
human self-preservation matrix
kicks in, i
begin seeing structural
weaknesses
windows open
without proper screens
or obstructions
to prevent unwanted interloper

in some windows the screens
are ripped
willowy flanges
in dream wind black night
this is not my home,
or any home i
have inhabited

room organization changes
floor plan doesn’t fit
structural possibility
noticing now
in dream house basement
come alive with
dried spider webs
moving with insects coloured
like tropical flowers
bright yellow, neon green
colour denoting toxicity

hand brushes against
desiccated carcass

body jerks reflexively
to brush away corpse flesh thing
i feel a bite
not certain if poisonous
counting seconds
as skin agitates
bumps appear
1  2

3  4
arranged like dice pips
then
5
gasp suddenly before a sixth
at moment of dream evac, i
hear
audible
warbled scream of terror being
in my waking ear
reverberating even now
as Man-device accounts for lunacy
dismissable
bad sleep

wash it out with
television, or
comfort from familiar love
reassurances
that i
am well
adjusted
that this tangible plane is
my home

connected to conscious cradle,
One
among many dreaming a human dream
treading water
in the infinite gray area
between existences

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Vulnerable

can I feel you?
may I,
reach my hand out
will you not recoil, but
press your skin to this
open palm
lean into me

will you allow me to
explain my Self to yours
in word dialogue symbols
transcribed
decoded
mind to mind?

may we find where we
complete the other,
allowing that it were possible
to momentarily transcend
the insipid frenzy?

would you find me there
worm seeking
succulent?

would your self-designed walls
come apart,
would you let me in, were that I
compatible invader?

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Trembling Before The Machinery Of Other Skeletons

I omit I in the presence
of observer
when alone
am free to escape skin-foil,
shell cap,
flesh draped on wire hanger
bony meat vessel dance macabre
tooth-face, lidless
in perfect sanity self

liberated
from material decorations
skin-suit hangs
in limp
folds
penetrated by unchecked sunlight
beam fills hollow void
in man dust selfish rooms
darkened
by forever eve’s
of terrible realities
I objectively criticise
persona of Self Accountability

“hate Hell and love me
just as well

empty out to fill you
with myself.”
the Mask mocks
laughing at my fragility exposed
soul without form
slogging through the wend of time
indiscernible
from the perceptions of
other
despicable meat

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

The Herpes He’s Too Embarrassed To Tell His Mother About

i try to be a good tenant
keep my music down
mind my own business
i never run the laundry after 9pm
except on weekends
mindful of others
and still
the partiers come partying
banging on my walls
hollering at my balcony
though i ignore
pretend i don’t hear them
see them
eyes sideways
staring at the strange pale man
that no one knows
indoors always
behind thick curtains
clicking madly at his keyboard
into the night
laughing at nothing in particular
seen slinking
over parking lot shadow 3am
with bags for dumpster
mysterious
beautiful
pervert
they hate my quietude
that’s why they exhibit such obvious
insipid disgusting human behaviour
it’s that i don’t need them
or is it
because that one friend i had visiting
new years
screaming cocaine bliss and booze
at indian cab driver
lunatic howling fever
or
when my brother called me
and i shouted from my lungs
“she’s a cunt-faced bitch!”
and all the building heard my potty mouth
angry masturbating in the bathroom
smoking marijuana

i try
to be useful

i try to be less
frustrated

my upstairs neighbour gives me reason
though
he stomps every chance he gets
sits three feet from
his bellowing midnight television
smokes cigarettes on his balcony
above mine coughing mucus in yellow morning
makes racist faces at brown children
a general pain
i devour

phantom at his door
apparition on bedroom ceiling
nightmare in his ear
germ
in his soup
pimple on his morning cheek
meditating
Om,
Om,
I transcend

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Animated Husk

railyard
alive with sound of
steel cars
metal
grinding
men buckling and unbuckling
with small head lamp beams
glow in the black
radio transmissions
machinery and gears
clank, brakes squeal
this
unnatural construction
heard miles away
in prairie field wheat
smell of yellow green earth
in nostril night air
beneath
northern lights green blue ribbons
cell towers
oil pumps hung near highway power line
buzz of flourescent
human structure
stench
waste managment
water treatment plants
chlorinating the natural
grass carved for pavement
hundred thousand miles across
virgin
unmolested planet
satellites beam human likeness
to a billion monitors in second fractions
the atmosphere glowing
radioactive
under
plastic rubber space boots

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Despite All My Rage

“We are born into a preinvented existence within a tribal nation of zombies
and in that illusion of a one-tribe nation there are real tribes.”
~ David Wojnarowicz

if I
run naked through the streets
clothes flung from body
kicks
white ass meat hair chest
arm fat
running
free from the cages of fear
free
of faceless purgatories,
of self-imposed prisons
of wars supposedly won and lost
in generations before mine
here
screaming incomprehensible joy

chased now by the Hounds of Peace
sirens and light strobe chain slogans
reciting from robot memory
excising an abnormality from the fold
to be sent away
and diagnosed
and medicated,
I

an individual can be ignored

if we were ten thousand, well
now we have a protest!
now we can be heard!

telephone rang the other day
I answered to a woman representative of
Cable Provider
she
prefaced the offer with
“a deal you won’t find in any brochure”
$5.00 per/mo. extra for
an outrageous amount of content
good for 6 months before regular rates
I replied
“I’m good with what I have, thanx”

Oh?
what’s holding you back, Mister Watchel?

“I really don’t watch that much television”
she seemed panicked, request denied
respectfully refused
the phone call was being recorded
she said
to be reviewed later
she implied
with that high-pitched “please daddy” voice
unaware that she is an Agent
working for the Corporate Collective
that not all of us
are so easily seduced

disgusted
I
gazed lazily out
the living room window at the world
at the Industrial Complex
and felt afraid for the minds
being raped night after night
connected to the imagination stealing devices

to the Name Brand Trust
to the consumer market idiocy
the need to belong
consciously creating cliques
exclusivity

individuality now archetypal
trend, label
purchase this product and receive
a membership ticket
now
valued by the secret club
creating generations of subservient worshippers

I threw my radio into a public park
demanding change
I photographed a homeless picking bottles
on Main Street for ironic purposes
I scraped ice from a windshield
with a DVD
I dreamed of degenerate art
made from broken computers

in the future
Western landfills will be excavated
by curious archeologists wondering
where it all went so horribly
wrong

One
speaking out against
the tyranny of Many
will always be
ignored, hunted, a vigilante

many against many
is War

and there is always money to be made
from conflict.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Extra Bacon

seriously considering
late-night sojourn to
nearby sandwich shoppe
if that cute awkward girl is working
if my acne is clear
if I smile just right
she’ll give me extra free toppings
without asking
she’ll stare soulfull
beneath brown bangs
and show interest
hoping our hands touch as
she hands me
my purchase
offer idle chit-chat
fantasizing deep eyes
sighing naked bodies in
back alley fuck sweat
chicken-skin cold thighs
wet panties forgotten
in puddle water

but,
I’m not that hungry

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.