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Irate Watcher Nov 2016
I am a clockmaker
not so keen on letting people
keep track of how I keep time.
I just do.
Effortlessly.
Without
Skipping
A
Beat.
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.
Irate Watcher Nov 2016
Live IN it:

The breeze brushing soft skin,
glowing in cavernous autumn.

Me solo:

astounded by the world.
astounded by my own hands.
standing on my own feet.
lead by the volition of discovery.
filling empty space
with MY understanding.

What is mine:

Calling dibs on myself.
Thinking about pleasing someone else
and being fraught with anxiety.
Continuously forgetting
things emerge slowly until:
EXCITEMENT of being at the end of things,
hold on tight.

Peeling from my chest:

DIGNITY reminds me
to be uncomfortable
with familiarity.
Beauty is knowing
I'll just miss out on singularity.

So I just LET go:

blow cross shallow water,
bask in uncertainty, and
startle people with my pace.
Irate Watcher Mar 2016
He left.
The wound is still fresh,
stinging with guilty relief.
Adrenaline — the open door.
An empty bed.
Sheets tangled,
stretched across the floor.
Quiet delight —
the sound of the door slamming
because he forgot his boxers
and needs to kiss me ten more times.  

No. He's already home.
He hasn't been home
here for a while now.
Dare I check my phone.
Dare I check my texts.
Dare I leave this bed.

There was comfort in
those passing fights.
Up after down,
holding each other
so intensely
we were afraid to let go,
I didn't want to let go,
but it was time, and
he's not the type to fight.
What's done is done.
It's over.
I've listed the reasons why.
Without convincing,
I've (sort of) made up my mind.
And even if he hasn't, he'll try.
*Pathological, it is to write, when inspiration strikes at strife. Hands unclamped, to hands that cramp, to touch, to love again.
Irate Watcher Aug 2015
Ugh Christopher Green...




Get out of here.
Can we start a petition to get this spammer off of HP?
Irate Watcher Aug 2015
You say I'm "reckless."
I take the subway alone at night
And walk past alleyways
I bike without a helmet
and accept rides from strangers.
I travel alone
to faraway places
with governments
America has flagged
and stay with strangers
I met on airplanes.
I have had casual ***
with lots of men,
I get my heart broken
from those who don't give a ****.

You say I'm "reckless."
My apartment is in a rent controlled complex with sneakers
stuck on the wrought iron fence.
I have water and electricity,
but not internet.
My neighbor was
in a hollywood gang
back in the day
The rest speak Spanish.
I find myself justifying
to you it's temporary,
but secretly am upset that
it will be torn down
just as I finish decorating.

You say I'm naive
when I say there is no evil —
just broken people.
It is people like you
who break them.
You say I'm idealistic
when I don't feed the system.
Why not eat the same rotation cause
it's efficient. *******, daughter!
Follow the recipe!
You say I'm "reckless,"
but I am just living,
and you are a scorpion
poised to attack
anyone who turns over
the rocks you live under.

When you say I'm "reckless,"
I flashback to moments
I'd never sting you with.
Like the time I opened
the window screen
and wondered how far
the fall would be,
crouched upon
a second story balcony.

No, I am not "reckless!"
I just can't understand
The point of fearing death
Or pain
Or suffering
The best art
is created by the ill-content,
the gonzo
the sociopath.
So why not let them live?
Please...just let me live!
Cause I can't take
your eyebrows raised
and the turned-down corners
of your pursed lips,
fearing I am "reckless."
Worried sleepless.
Your puffy purple eyes,
assuming I am floundering,
repulsed by marriage or a salary.
You should just accept
I will never have social security.
As a child...
you taught me I could be anything,
but frowned when I said I liked poetry.
To you, anything meant
a corporate ingenuity
To you, warriors
work hard and succeed.
They needn't take risks,
just business classes.
You wanted to pay for them
and then dine at
an overpriced restaurant afterward.
But I prefer the Bolivian markets.
I want to take you,
but you say it's dangerous
and you'd be rude
to the waitresses.

I know, when you say
that I'm "reckless,"
you are protecting —
a supportive parent.
But saying I am "reckless"
is starting to become overbearing.
You can stop now.
Cause you wont.
Stop it.
You will not **** my instincts,
only augment my rebellion.
You will not make me
in your image 'cause
I don't want to be like you —
Complacent in a bubbled,
grass-fed existence —
cows may live in comfort
but all they do is
pollute the environment.
The day I fear
is not your judgement,
but the day I stop living
and just say people are "reckless."
Even though I never
talk with anyone different.

No, I am not "reckless."
I ride the bus
and forget my headphones
I meet strangers
who become fast friends.
I learn about a world
filled with joy and happiness,
and pain and suffering,
and I love it ALL.
And I will continue to love
all the "reckless" things too,
just as much as you love me
when you tell me:
"Now, don't be reckless."
Irate Watcher Jul 2015
Bow down.
Look up.
You addict —
consumed by a
human body.
Ideal to you.
Indifferent to me.
So, look at me.
Look at my *******.
Swollen.
Sagging conically.
Look, but don’t touch
Then, sharpen each square inch.
Pause at each nip.
Turn me around.
I make it easy to feast on my anatomy.
Shove your white fists
inside these delicate folds of skin.
Then rip me off my pedestal
and onto your lips,
so you drown ******,
choked by dust.
Your tongue
carving territory
inside a power-hungry *****.
Just another sculptor, shackled to art.
Such cold worship
granite cannot love.
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