filth

let see,
let word follow word
let end let

begin

“well filth, do what you do
to become beautiful
that
is your cycle towards luminary
into brilliance

discarding the self as “ism”
,&idea
a stitch to stem a floodwaters
crash&surrender
to the melanchollies

reward yourself by becoming
the picture of confident
return

© Emerys Watchel, 2020 All rights reserved.

#&!+

right foot in a looking glass
left foot in a bucket
dragging help

disconnected Me&dressed-up
luggage
hurry up hurry up

one more time to set these pieces
running
& a message in the sand

© Emerys Watchel, 2020 All rights reserved.

lie

the truth about privacy
is
that it is desired
by intimately curious
(in this case) la femme
a translation is proposed
to wit
for the item:Secrets,
1 token access pending performance review
providing(ofc)vulnerability is not man-handled

though

i have a growing suspicion that she w a n t s
her secret laid bare
“isn’t that why you’re here(?
the grandeur, the
being a more-impossible constellation
of parts(… ”
anonymous contribution to
&oh, the littlest bit
of spectacle(?”

this is the waited for

ask me
____this,
i love you
____push me

____make me feel
deniable

completely and freely continue to
&

© Emerys Watchel, 2020 All rights reserved.

giddying little sorrow

for any of this(these)to be
more
than just impermanence
onedesire must, above all others glow
more
brilliantly

That! the light by which we guide
our instrument
That! future to which we cast
our(near&wanting)-selves

for fantasy be.made.real
(more)
This! or less;that vessels girded
with semi-precious wishes, only

and minor victories of chance-value
-a lusterless trinket
),be

© Emerys Watchel, 2019 All rights reserved.

abuse

is as i have suspected
:an interruption,a
course correction”
love- even when well-meant is
it would hurt
me
to see you (fumble&stumble about
so.much.so that i must
interject myself into your
logical spheres
tying unconnected ends together&
sweeping up unnecessaries

) )there)

all is arranged according to my
designimperfect
listen, beloved

© Emerys Watchel, 2019 All rights reserved.

black rose

would we
as children, recognize
each other

did not then know what
for looking was, i

a reason?)in these
forests, in sweetsmelling
streams –
turning to footfalls
in spring frost, see

a dream for a thing different
than any other
grown
to its natural

,or in itself despairing
singular
beauty

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

after Florence

from this distance
i find it hard to imagine
an ocean trampling across
the prairies

water destroying, drowning its way
through every thing
and there’s the fear that One can survive
only so many disasters

from here i sit, companied with empathy
wondering over your many
wounds
there was perfectness, this is not it

for you
my thoughts are a nest of concerns
would it move you to know, would you cry
and wish for me

has all that you have, or had
been finally taken for the last time?
for me
it is you

there are hells yet
for miles on all sides
this one here, so far away
is mine

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

loved

loved on the way excited to the space
that voice holds anxiously to a name playing
you and you and you spritely at the spoken
carries like a flicker in the skin
exposed what had sharpened tooth to bone

almost floating over the weatherwet pavements
when found forgotten how had feet kept step
to that dance of faces drained the morrow
sped increasing comfortable gestures fall
a curl upon the slowly letting in

finger traced a flower wreathing ribbon
shared between sounds of mouthed release
caution care fragility dares a telling
stories move fires in phantom hearths
ghostly settled dust a bittered flavour
curse laid on the bridge between two rooms

forgiven repeated forgiven a larger sphere
reveals a path away and to the all
kindle renewed want a breathing closer
to decorate cathedral’d rook and stone
streams a trickle hearts a beating river
real is truer than what touch can spell

without guile or need to secret knowledge
upon once a child remembered planting
seeds the armoured towers in age we wore
contempt would rust familiar to the loathe

retreat to self neglected by the bruise
to reinforce defending mutual interest
this is owed to eating more than given
dried the garden wildly overgrown

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

us or them

wasn’t difficult to say
it means more now to hear
once those three words first trembled

i watched
and a mouth moved to speak them
a face waited to hear them returned

this is the excitement what follows
a struggle to keep them first,
and last

everything was happening as it should
and never occurred that we
were acting out roles

,man and woman, trying
a simple knot to keep
what was invented for us to maintain

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

Hyphen

A grander stroke
than this
stood they
pairs of eyes
heads full of bees
bottled questions
to be loosed
and so a surrender
must event itself
in the form of a dance
ungainly
as sure-footed spiders

it ends the way it does
with more of a ponderance
at its beginning
should I
have taken a lover that year?

was it worth the rue
to stand for right,
and sober skepticism?

what have any of us
now
but mixed memories
crawling like insects
up the parts
of swollen pride

I try to forget all that
and say “I loved her,
capricious thing

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

exist to be discovered

love,
a Well dried of deep
dark water, thirsty
hollow
screaming wind
enough to drink whole uni-
verses
bestial
ravening mad-want
see
the desert stretched beyond horizons
see the sun-drenched spectacle of death
the vortex is all around
feel
the heat rise, choking its way inside
fight
with fresh red lung meat
inhale
consciousness
is not long for this.
consume. the mercy of illness
compels
divide
apply concerned determination
to the vertical leap
and strike when the moment is
rich with metaphorical compositions

it will return
it will exist to be discovered
always

she will cut the pearl of her warmth
and mend her sorrow
with your flesh
if it would only keep you

and
can it
satisfy
?

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

correspondence from Mars

Time
comes to us all
this is life, we
‘ve all heard the metaphor
of the clear ringing bell,
or the Train -the
living thing of Time, rushing
toward us through the complexity
of unknown distances
they say
it all began with a Bang:
matter collided in Space
unknown subjects on a path of an-
nihilation and birth
& here we are
jumping through light
glittering with magnificences
not our own

convinced
that beauty is ours to define,
intelligence is a quantifiable substance
or that identity
is a proximal energy
an inventable fantasy
this is true,
and not true

but I sympathize
this
will be little other than a pebble
for the shoes of what you must endure
in the repetitions of awake,
and asleep
in the unendurable monotony
and it says nothing for the
dead

astrological bodies collided
creating The Bang
however matter, like energy
can not be created from nothing
so it follows logically
that ancient galaxies must have existed
before our conceptions
with a Time of their own
yet we
with our dying illuminations
have decided Fates and Gods
as explanations for the
obvious
and i
do not do this to be loved by you
rather,
i do this with the Hope
that you might love
yourself

it starts in
the blossoming of flowers
bees assist the escape
the Americas are on fire
with copulation
heat enough to last through
winter

the symmetry of towers
make alien landscapes worthy
of our Druidic histories
microchips married to organisms
avatars animated by archetypes
and this is an arrangement of symbolic
statements

inter-netwiredmeat, in love
with escape
this is about evolution
i was born in a world
of infant computers
now i have been a dozen people
but
you are a constant
a point of orbit
a nucleus
i am a particle
casting a minute shadow
across your sphere
audience to your tide-waters,
your dissolving of dinosaurs
your
shifting geologies

you are a woman
i am a broken machine, a discard
left to the devices of elements
crudely displayed
to those
that come to guess at the preponderance
of my nudity
i offer amnesias

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

Valdez’s Donkey

i adore the scent
of her bloom
it’s a presence that remains
after her spidery thing
of love
it makes the ridiculousness of
her profile
more endearing
tho
when
(as she does)
troop in pallet, after pallet
after pallet
a serrated line of antique
intricacy
aimed at me, and sets the walls
of her moat afire
that ridiculousness is less so,
and more-so
endearing

her, with reinforced walls
and unassailable
phantoms
wait
for me to parley
to approach silver armored,
pearl horsed, raised white flag
and present a token of trust
:her tincture
unwashed from the nape
of my waist

and this is insanity, i insist
in cold-rooms
wrapped in her web
…madness”
then a trumpet sounds
in the courtyard
and once more i
am evicted
to brave a storm
co-created

,out to the desolate border
turn
hungry, reinvigorated
sword ready

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

Give Something

it comes down to this
once more
convictions and principles met
clean hands washed muddy
high horse pastured, lame
the creditors are at the
door
something’s gotta’
give

where in all the noise
are you?
i know your number, say your name
there’s no reprieve
yet we pretend
dance a little circle
shaky, solid ground
and it comes
to this
react, interpret, defend

if there’s a way through this
it’s through the fire
falling on the
sword
am i the Man from La Mancha?
_____am i anxiety, storm, and ire
_____lashing at phantoms
_____stabbing at shadows
truly, is this my only device?
for want i love
for love am damned
to run

into, and away
from

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

captivated

fragile slip of frost
on dew-back’d leaf melt bead
tickles along the spine rib blades
of her silhouette

as Eve might
have reached an armlong hand above head
at that mysterious
gleam of fruit-skin naked
in her garden

too perfect, the pale of her
and i watch that timeless moment
captivated

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.