Hairy Sweaty Knuckles

Sunday morning seems a bad time
to publish poetry,
what with all the Atheists
in Church

the internet World tied to
actual Time
and all the Old Gods are buried
under Hellenistic ruins

everywhere but in grecian minds

,and the draft dodgers are teaching
the Pledge Of Allegiance to
schoolkids before a half
-naked crucifix

..”nailed Jesus, hands and feet”
sweaty Roman penis stuck
between his butt-cheeks
what need has God of nipples?

,or collection plates of money?
what has he done with all those centuries
of coins
is Heaven a Scrooge McDuckian vault
full of golden donations,
does the Lord sit, shiny
with glistening forehead star
and hang his pubic beard down
for us to climb

ladder to forgiveness
even with all that superstitious magic
candles, prayers,
book of curses

artifact symbolism crosses for pentacles
even if
give Him more, more, even
if sing, if loudly relinquish
material possessions,
in groups and compare clothes
-what need has God of a balance sheet?

what need
have we of Sunday, Julian Calendar,
Bells ring mighty in Steeples
clanging between The Almighty’s white thighs,
while everywhere women drop their panties
fart, and cuss
pinching folds of useless skin
stinking of hygiene coverup perfume

what need has God of thread count,
leather spats, lavatories,
bowels, and bladder breakfast menu
at the downtown diner
reward for sitting through the Sermon

shit, wipe
eggs, bacon
tip your waitress, she works hard
has tired feet
has bills to pay

is Human

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.


Fire in the Dark

we are leaving
ghost footprints in the sand
will wash the party beach
bottles rolling in the waves

we are
giants dreaming future loss,
in rockets asleep a thousand years
we left the dirt
for home
to build new castles in the stars

brushed legs
with sand beneath her finger
-nails, green ribbons in her hair
“we are leaving.
the bonfire burned for far too long
dance me in your arms,

let the fire take the city down.”
we sang
and burned the manuscripts
in the ash of violins

beneath the paper moths
cindered in the rising heat
of our
fire in the dark

as all the beards of libraries
shamed us
with their blackened grins

we are leaving

all leaving,
hillsides rich with poetry
dreams of unwritten books will find
new geniuses to give them names

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Our Malthusian Inheritance

returning to animal
self, disconnected from
electronic devices
cathode, and diode soldered boards
in Cybertropolis mother brain
I will not
become a pinwheel blowing energy breath
over the plastic face
of this
manufactured Eden
soulless replacement for
vegetable dreams

Man under leaf Sun Moon and rain
appealing to the starry visible

“Great Oceansky above,
blessed be your torrential curtain

May the low valleys swell pregnant
with deluge

Loose your mighty bolts into the
void beyond
sun-pierced evenblue laurel

To crown my broken path
over the mountain.”

picking my way
on hobbled bone & burdened fatty liver
away from the godless aluminium slums
of human robots -hiding from their shadows
in tenement money dust,
fed sickly on
atomic farms,
processed food mash w/ claw hands,
pushing words out over teeth
onto Computer screens
glowing against the impossible black
of consumer Heaven
every developable tract of
Earthgreen purchased by Gomorrah Nation’s
Media Construct
perpetually grown
alive in Hospital Nursery infant
complete and ready
to be downloaded
by programs that imagine
they’re people.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Between Us

brain is hungry
body can starve, for the lot
of good it’s ever
done me
suck me, fuck me
that’s easy
but tell me something i
haven’t heard a hundred thousand
times before
from other precious meateaters
that aped those same worn-out words
millenniums of existence
haven’t changed

i want more than this,
than your limitations can manage

i thought, but didn’t say -meant to

leaping mountains outside of time
beyond geography, beyond this

your eyes ensure that a
torturing is conveyed
return back to me from nowhere
which is why i lingered on
your balcony
a moment
before turning to walk
my shoes
beneath city moon
street light melancholy planets
i used to dream were shared

between us.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Have you seen the new Fits?

at Honda dealership
tag-along w/a friend waiting
for maintenance

dressed quickly, I
in unkempt long hair
notebook underarm
pencils protruding from hoodie
pocket left hand

a standing oddity among haircuts

with the waiting area at capacity
we bench outside
no handhelds, video games, or computers
my only entertainment

to move time’s presage
spine propped on the corporate wall
my scribbling has been observed
however the awkward body language
is palpable

note-taking in such obvious manner
seems to have unnerved at least
one suit

poured amply into pants
belt-pudge tucked
under shirt armpit fat & slip-on
leather flats
non-athlete like myself

takes his cigarette break
eight comfortable feet away
eyeballs hidden beneath dark sunshades

not a particularly hot or
uninviting day
baby blue prairie sky cluttered
with slow-moving cloudforms
paunchy whalewhite underbellies
lazily inch their way overhead

I feel very stared-at

a rhythmic shop broom sweeps
concrete garage floor

bald men with busy atmosphere
scoff underbreath as they pass

the smell of chemical detergents
unnoticed by the noseblind

automobile alchemists unwind
vehicular clockwork replacing dead metal
with functioning dust

a mandala of machines in motion
beneath capitalist dogma

One is reminded of money-eyed metaphors
of goblins toiling in dwarf mines
to serve a draconic god of concrete
coins exchange hands in capillaries
pumping forge fire through
mountain veins

energy transformed to carbon monoxide

moved, we inside, now that seats are
slouch-fit pleather chairs

gum on the floor

fifty inch flat screen set to sports channel
hockey game
commentated by tv personality suits
dramatically describing everything

the service centre interior decor
smacks of clinical disembodiment
diagonal off-white floor tile squares
faux wood grain cabinetry
black countertops speckled to
resemble asphalt
an unused public coffee machine
water cooler, paper towel/ sink
self-serve station fully stocked
vending machine
cultivated chin beards and deals
on new used tires

“Deals so good, they’re like magic.”
one ad claims
“pick a car, any car.”

crayons in plastic bowl side-table
next to magazines

managers down hallways fidget
busily exchanging words with
black-shirt customer service front
of house
wall clock looks like a brake disc

it’s all a dream
inhabited by manicured specters
obsessed with appearance, for
appearance’s sake

the insoluble filth of greed
remains visible
despite this unclever disguise

dollars for services
inarticulately recounted by
thick fingered whore, re-checked
by senior agent red-shirt disapproval
permanently mutated face wrinkles

two hours for a new a/c line
$534.40 one new part
“car sounds more better.”

we leave, I -feeling the flatfoots relief
glowing naked ears

stopped at Mc Dick’s drive-thru
on the way back through town
two upsized meals ordered, paid for
with coupon
one came back Medium

fucking vampires.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

The Call of a Bell

ringing over sundries door
a smile
from an aged familiar
glistening dimples gesturing
to the
iced cream reprieve
cooler next to the chips
and candy assortments

“sure is a hot one, eh?”

return smile, nod
apply some affectual
glean in his general direction

before returning to wander
down aisles
looking for
soup & soda crackers

these sale items are never
decently priced, if i
had a car i’d waste the difference
driving to the supermarket
anyway, what the Hell
(thinking to self)
fondling cans of Campbell’s

“No more penny candies.”
he said, directing my attention
with a sweaty finger

“yup. the Canadian Mint
stopped making new pennies.”

well i’ll be…
(kids today got it bad)
Just this, thanx.
coloured pop on counter
asked for menthol smokes

“we’re all out of that brand.”
responded with a platonic hand wave
as if to tell him
i didn’t mind

he rounded the total down to the
nearest 5
saved 3 cents
back through the ringing
to the street outside

pedestrian heat
on the sidewalk waiting to
cross. staring dumbly
at the air-conditioned auto’s
rolling by
trunk lids rattling from
sub woofer stereos

hoping to find Prospero’s
abandoned scepter.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.


being this and seeing you
such a treat
another year,
another trip

nights filled with
dreamily talking on pillows
into the curved night sky
blue water mouths

nothing turns me on
like you do
nothin’ to say

trying to be free of Time’s
megalithic tombs

calling you back with their
draconic presences

be free, my love,
be almighty, be

the beat is gone
the soul,
the song

and i
am left with a monster
to chew on me
with its inevitable jaws

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.