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62.1k · Sep 2014
Ayo no technology
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The router's a strobe light;
I can't connect.
The microwave fritzed,
I can't heat.
The circuit shut;
guess no electricity.
Ayo no technology.
Let's talk ancient
philosophy,
NOT whether
Beyonce is a feminist.
Let's have a bonfire
and roast meat
cause none of us
were vegan
before this.
Let's light candles
in the streets.
Pray batteries die
on LCD screens.
Cause we were alchemists
before technology,
the versed probing
the multiverse,
thrilled,
lighting our golden
embroidery on life.
Now were just bored.
Coy toys to tied strings,
webs that touch
everything,
but the space between.
Declaring Sunday a sabbatical from LCD screens.
23.8k · Aug 2014
Digital masterbation.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Had you a viral video,
you’d watch it
more than once.

2. Instagram hearts
make you smile,
even from strangers.

3. Which would
you rather:
***
or
Zuckerberg
friending you
on Facebook.

No, this isn’t a Cosmo quiz —
it’s a social experiment.

Because no one ACTUALLY
answers these questions honestly
without looking like
that ****** at the pool
trying to get as MANY
high fives as possible.

Yet, we all do it.
Alone or in public.
Day or night.
LED screen spice up our lives.

It was probably
best embodied
by that girl taking
selfie
after  
selfie
after
selfie
after
selfie,
filmed for minutes
on the way to school,
the video soon posted,
by her dad
trying to teach  her a lesson?
Or trying to get attention?
Either way, he might as
well have hashtagged it
#socialsuicide.

Like most humor
we laughed at her
because we are her.
We see a dripping
characterture
******* to
itself in public.

Wait, it,
sounds wrong
when you name it.

But there is
a name for it:

Digital *******,
aka
Self-adoration
aka
Narcississism.

You won’t agree
that you do it too.

But I’ll bet
most of you
get excited
thinking about
notifications too.

Why is that?

You’d never admit it.

You can say
I smelt it, so I dealt it.
Call me a preacher,
a hater, or a hypocrit.

But I'd rather you call me a
digital masterbater too.

And then remember the last
time you opened Instagram
or Facebook
or Twitter
and took a selfie
or hashtagged something
or posted a status
that your still breathing.

How long has it been —
a minute, an hour, a day?

Now try making fun of her.
23.6k · Aug 2014
minecraft kidz.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
His dad,
hearing a beat,
turned the key,
not knowing
she was in there.
But shirt off, his
fourteen year
old, the CEO
just laughed and said:
"Dad, go back to bed."

He had won the game
AGAIN!
And nights spent
building a barrel
of monkeys
that
watched him
chop down wood
on YouTube
finally had
paid off —

It only took
20,000 followers
for her shirt to
come off.
The warped world of minecraft playing post-Millenials
I try each day to understand.
18.5k · Aug 2014
Morning coffee.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Your heart is like weak coffee--

Baseless and unsatisfying.

Goodbye and

 Back
    to
     the
       grind.
16.2k · Jul 2014
Not homeless.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Pants hang from my tree;
so please knock —
before bothering me.

I'm not homeless.

The park is my shelter
The grass, my bed.
The wind, my comforter
and sunny California,
my adopted mother.
13.9k · Jul 2014
Artificiality.
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Put your head down
and werk.
Put your feet up
and twerk.
Run quickly
and watch the  
pavement blur.

Don't ask questions.
Love you answers,
and explanations,
your valuations,
and justifications.

In the mood for pizza?
Cause the shop's on your left.
In 0.5 miles, it will be on your left.
ON YOUR LEFT.
YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE LEFT.
Rerouting...

the protocol is exactly THIS,
not THAT.
So just do it.
checkmark.
Nike said so.

Just buy it.
we suggest it.
Just try the Quesarilla
#tacobell #mexicanfood #foodporn
#pleasegetmemoreviews

How bout a selfie
where you look miserable
and unhealthy.
But you're a celebrity.
Rub your likeness
on me and
I'll get you publicity.

#fire
#ice
#rain
What happened to real pain?
And did dissonance disappear?
Why must I hide my tears?
And be bright and happy
And ogle guys with fohawks
trimmed so carefully.
And live a lie,
of numbers and rye
bread is the worst,
sandwiched in bursts.
We all live
and we all hurt
and we all deserve
a life like hers.
who you say?
Kim Kardashian,
of course.
13.6k · Aug 2014
silent dystopia
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
When the
mess bred
by ancient
logicians
is put to rest
and we dicover:
The chicken
and the egg
hatched
in two
different
places at
the same time;
Love was
an inverse
relationship
between lust
and time;
Infinity was
a universe
we couldn't see.

Will conversation
cease?

Will silence
replace
speech?

Will the larynx
become a vestige?

How will
we debate
the notes
that compose
silence?
11.7k · Sep 2014
These are all direct quotes
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
I like your eyes.
Your eyes are so blue.
God, I just love your eyes.
Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?
Nope. Never.
You’re a great kisser.
Where did you learn to kiss like that?
From other guys?
You know, you're smart.
You might be smarter than me.
Is that my cue to leave?
You want to hang out?
What do you want to do?
You eat meat, right?
Ok — good.
Would you dump me if I didn’t?
I like your shirt — it’s open in the back.
Really? I wasn’t aware.
I looove your ***. It’s just like mmmm (cups imaginary ***)
Yea. I know.
(After ***) Wow. I feel great.
Cool. Thanks.
(After ***) You finished right?
Nope.
You are so young.
*Hmm, what happens when I get old?
Guys — step up and be men please.
8.7k · Aug 2014
Round the clock.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Coffee or tea
perks me.
Too much!
Wine time.
Wind down.
Morning time
is round the clock.

Coffee or tea
perks me.
Too much!
Wine time.
Morning time
is round the clock.

Round the clock
R
  o
    u
   n
d
t
h
   e
     c
     l
    o
  c
k
Time.
Round clock.

Too much!
Wine down clock.
8.4k · Aug 2014
Writing and wine
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
The writer poured herself
a glass of wine,
to cloud her mind.
7.3k · Feb 2018
Transient
Irate Watcher Feb 2018
I want to be available
to the people who love me.
I want to be there
emotionally, physically, financially.
I want to be their shoulder
their crutch, their solace.
The person who does not drop anything.
I want to give the feeling
of lightness to every being walking this earth.
Every human, creature, and plant
as they grow up fast.
I want to be nutrition,
a steadfast superhuman
so unfazed, so cool-headed.

It infuriates me
that I'm not this person.
It should be so easy to give.
If I just get my **** together,
I've repeated on and off again
the last five years.
But somehow, I always manage
to waste enough time
to get there,
but late.
When I have nothing
left, a hollow person
someone gave too
many tries.

Still, the people I love
tell me I'm wise,
an angel body.
Like they must justify,
who I am,
the imposter
the transient,
always planning,
for when she can
run away again.
Irate Watcher Dec 2014
She says he wasn’t good enough.
He wasn’t worth it.
I try to convince myself
she’s right,
that he’d pay attention
if he were worth anything
but that’s a nicety,
an obvious misconception.
There must be
something wrong with me.
There must be
some things wrong with me.
Somethings wrongs with me.
If there wasn’t, he would like me.
or text me back.
He won’t text me back.
She says he doesn’t want to look desperate.
So I am searching, desperately,
for the words I said
the words I forget
that turned him off.
Was it because we had ***?
He said it wouldn’t change anything.
He said he had always liked me.
He said what he had to
to get me in his bed,
and now there's no text,
no call,
I don't see him,
hear him,
feel him,
but somehow I can't move on.
The heart talks to the head.
6.0k · Sep 2014
Tease
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
Muzzling your lap
with a faded head,
I cross
your heart
with a
trailing hand,
the hashtag
unintended.
Please don't
followmeto
bed.
Sorry for
the @muradosmann
regram.
I didn't mean
to mislead you.
But I missed
leading you.
It's complicated.
4.4k · Jul 2014
Bleaching hearts
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
Tangled by reeds
in the trash-ridden bay
of sunny Acapulco,
I brush your hair.

Dried gel
builds under my nails
and satisfies me.

You dive with me
into the ocean of fire
to wash our hands.

My heart beats red;
Leaking, it soaks
your white playera

It hangs high and dry,
but will never wash clean.
4.4k · Jan 2019
Sister spinster
Irate Watcher Jan 2019
I'm a spinster,
sick of seeing my
sisters treated as
flowers
picked and wilted.
Their petals
ripped and ragged.
In a cloudy vase --
the water needs changing,
but what's the point,
at this point?
She died when
you picked her --
cut from her roots,
She is lacking nutrition,
She can no longer absorb
the wind's wild sustenance.
She is too preoccupied
trying to survive,
under-appreciated,
and ill-cared for.

Soon,
when she is dry
brown,
brittle,
into the compost,
she goes.
Fertile,
rooting another
devastatingly
beautiful,
flower,
told to wait
for someone to
pick her.

But if you think
a flower is beautiful,
let her remain
with her sisters.
I have many wonderful, smart, independent women in my life who deserve better from their partners.
4.2k · Sep 2014
survival of the fittest
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The definition of evolution
is survival of the fittest,
or those that fit best
in their environment,
even if its air
is hydrogen
they breathe it and
strain polluted water
for particulates.
The atmosphere's
clogged with smog
and greenhouse gases
I have not evolved
to breathe yet.
Flames melt my
soul for consciousness.

The world is a
popularity contest,
and I just don't fit in.
4.1k · Jun 2015
Stillness in the Circus
Irate Watcher Jun 2015
I am Bear Lady
and you are Toucan Man —
Fur and feathered backs
against a striped tent.
Cut-off like tickets,
crowds melting Dali-like
in the distance
from crystalline eyes,
frozen in time…

Wings graze skin and
fur can’t compete.
The electricity of
our eccentricity
is freakish,
yet with every touch,
I feel less like a freak.
My history
of hoop jumping
tightrope walking,
and captivity
dissolve transparently
as I search deep,
                deep,
            deep,
into supernova eyes —
they outshine
this circus life,
this love for applause,
the performance inside.

As I gaze into
frozen pools,
the broken chords
of carny music
da da da-da-da-da drown.
The morning quiet,
muddled coffee grinds
are sensitive and silent,
chilling me to the soul.
Earth, a peripheral,
to pupils that absorb
mine full-force,
until I can’t see
this galaxy anymore,
save green starbursts,
my light source.
For the one I love.
4.0k · Nov 2018
Moving to the suburbs
Irate Watcher Nov 2018
It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...

I built everything —
it was so clear.

Even though —
it was chaos.

People were worried.
But it was simple.

It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.

Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.

I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.

It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.

Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.

I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?

My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
This comes from the heart. I don't mean to complain — I'm grateful for what I have now and am so happy to not be struggling. But sometimes, with things so comfortable, I feel less alive and wonder if I'm getting complacent.
3.9k · Jan 2015
Molly
Irate Watcher Jan 2015
Fingers make contact with hands,
                                             we can’t stand like,
butter
flies
     on
       a
tree branch

amidst a strange wind.

Fluttering above
trees rooted in sidewalks,
out of sight.

And it feels like
the texture of our shirts
is truth,
    the cat fur,
       the bed sheets,
           our clenched teeth,
Molly whispers in our head
a meditative melody,
and we’re rollin,'
our infinite eyes
hung together
in widened silence,
enjoying a good lie.
Indigo children
with no words, just hands,
applauding the feeling,
dreading the end.
Time past,
grown up,
deflated,
we come down
to see that
sober is just
categorizing
adjectives.
3.9k · Oct 2014
Muscle Queen Courtney
Irate Watcher Oct 2014
Words tattooed her thighs.
Chocolate hair fell in her eyes.
Muscle queen stomped
gymnastick,
round silver poles.
She was no stripper,
but an athlete
for tips
and hand shakes
and bills in her
cracking her face,
her face must be
cracking
to
***-grabbing lions,
prowling LA's
city sierra bored.
I couldn't imagine
Queen Courtney crying.
But upside down,
floating disco lights
exposed pursed face shows.
She girated
***-lined hips
for tips, not ego.
Splits and tricks
choking chuckling girls
saluting her routine,
tossing one's,
wishing they were ten 0's.

She looked magnificant.
I asked her if she was a gymnast.
She said something like that,
eyes fixed on the sleek floor,
strong arms chilled by the cold —
men with thick wallets and no home.
So I gave her my coat.
Inspired by an exotic dancer I met last night who shared my name.  All one needs to do to humanize someone is to identity with a sliver of what they might be going through.
3.8k · Sep 2014
Next
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
women: swipe left guys
who compliment your blue eyes.
they are cataracts.
Creativity takes effort. Compliments don't. Write me a f***in poem.
3.4k · Feb 2019
Figured out
Irate Watcher Feb 2019
There was something
strange about your
demeanor
like you were
trying to place me
but couldn't quite
figure out where...

Listen.

I'm not easily
placed.
I can't be easily
figured out.
My ******
expressions
and body language
are incongruous
nonsense.
My body itself
is a polygon
with undefined
sides and length.
You'll never calculate.
You'll think you have the
answer a dozen times
before you do, and
then you still won't.
We all know you're
predictable as ****, but
I'm not.
I don't compute.
I am not a number.
I am more like a force.
A deep feeling in
your gut you ignore.
That you follow and then question.
The purpose of a pilgrimage
that started with someone different.
Just go with it.

I am good at ******* yes.
Once you've kissed my holy *******
there is nothing more to discover.
You'll know me inside and out.
Touched me in a way no one else has...laughs
Let's just go with that.
3.3k · Oct 2018
Technology haiku
Irate Watcher Oct 2018
Tiny hogs *******
away a bright little dream
bit transparent screens.
3.2k · Sep 2014
no gymnastics for six weeks.
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The badge of pride as a ******* in high school
was dunking your inflamed limbs
into an ice bucket for 20 minutes,
in Mr. Dewey’s office —
the school trainer AND
every girl's crush.

I always wanted  someone to pour
ice water over my sores,
and ****** always being healthy enough
as Jess told the teacher loudly enough
that she hurt her ankle at track AGAIN
needed to see Dewman.
Guess they were best friends now.
****

When I fractured my back, I didn’t even get a doctor's note.
Because I wasn’t on a school team.
I was a gymnast for an outside club, not high school varsity.
My high school had disbanded the gymnastics team in the 70’s.
Said it was too much of a liability.
The last team picture hung in the award cases on the first floor.
I wished I could be one among those vintage leotards,
framed in gold — the warriors of high school.
Most of my classmates didn’t know I even did a sport.
They just thought I was a bookworm who was flat-chested.
Only the girls poked my abs in the locker room,
asking how I got them.

So I iced my wounds at home.
I didn’t even know my back was broken
and for a month I drank ibuprofen.
Sharp pains biting more frequently,
I finally went to the doctor.
The nurse asked me if I wanted to look
while she injected me with an isotope that
poisoned my dreams of finishing the season.
Green neon lit my bones, shedding the diagnosis —
no gymnastics for six weeks.

At school, I dressed to fit my backbrace:
baggy t-shirts and sweatpants.
My straightener rusted.
Messy buns took precedence.
I tried to go to practice, but my coaches told me to leave.
But I had no where to be!
And I had no friends at school.
My only friends I watched get awards,
not registered, but wearing my warmups.
I swore how I could beat the competition from the stands.
Stupid back.
Stupid Christine.
Stupid me.
I should have never done that 1 1/2 twist front flip series.
Poor bones landing on hard carpet repeatedly,
I ignored the jolts as static electricity.

Now everyone was working on new skills
and I could barely do a cartwheel.
That summer we had lots of pool parties —
but I couldn’t dive in.
So I sat on the ledge,
feet dipped in, while everyone played chicken.

— — —

After six weeks of recovery,
I start jogging.
I did a roundalf,
then a backhandspring.
That night I was so sore —
my memory of skills strong, but
my muscle memory poor.
Each stride into a tumbling pass felt like running in a pool.
Some days I felt like sprinting down the tumble-track
Other days I wanted to bounce on my back,
stare at the ceiling, and feel each node of impact.

Recovery day was my coach laying down a mat.
Today was the day I’d repeat the skill that broke my back.
I took a deep breathe and three long steps
into the first part of the tumbling pass:
roundoff,
backhandspring,
back layout one-and
a-half twist, front flip
stuck into a step.
My coaches cheered and
my friends clapped.

I was back.

Yes.

I was back.
3.2k · Aug 2014
Lavender Haze
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
The most beautiful hour in L.A.
is 3 A.M., when,
petals
of lavender
peep through
wooden blinds,
lulling restless minds
laid on Egyptian
Cotton candy
clouds amuse me.
Because as I close my eyes,
I realize,
that here,
there is no starry night
because this beautiful haze
is light pollution.

But pollutions' hue calms
a city mind.
Like sirens quell
eager ears,
And liquor tickles
tantalized tongues,
And words flow
from numb knuckles,
And insomnia wets
drying eyes,
I,
am struck,
that this lavender haze
helps me see
that too much
is always what I need.
3.1k · Nov 2014
Ari's hands
Irate Watcher Nov 2014
Ari,
Hold my hand like stars hold the sky,
Ari,
you make black space bright.
Ari,
Don't let go
Please.
Cause your valleys fill my ridges,
and as our fingerprints sync
we lie together alone.
So please,
don't let me go,
don't let the unknown go,
because five minutes ago,
we were strangers,
and now...
we are holding hands.
I can't believe we are just holding hands,
again,
eyes closed,
strokes stimulate electrodes,
heads who just want
hands to be hands,
rush with finger's innuendo
to images of stripping off clothes.
But it's not the right time.
Shoulders shrug goodbye.

And it's a bright day outside.
A stranger held my hand this morning for 7 minutes.
3.1k · Sep 2018
Slowtar
Irate Watcher Sep 2018
Slowtar,
the monster,
is black sludge.
He engulfs
all alive,
complaining
begrudgingly
about the ongoing
construction.
striped
cones
only
tell
us
where to go.
Irate Watcher Jan 2015
I don’t know you well enough
or I’d read you this poem.
I don’t know you well enough,
though your quite handsome.

I don’t know you well enough
for you to care about my interests,
I don’t know you well enough —
we haven’t reached that level yet.

I don’t know you well enough,
but if I did I wouldn’t want to.
I don’t know you well enough,
please keep playing elusive.

I like your life, but
I don’t know you well enough
to like your instagrams —
it could seem stalker-ish.

We’ve talked about dinner,
but I don’t know when
or if we’ll actually go.
I don’t know you well enough.

I don’t know you well enough,
but text you regardless,
you invite me backhanded
to your friends' plans.

I don’t know you well enough,
to hold your glance,
you buy me a beer,
my hands fold between my legs.

I don’t know you well enough,
but I know when your drunk.
Your friends leave
and I give you a ride home.

I don’t know you well enough,
but you invite me in,
your cat treats me like
a familiar friend.

I don’t you well enough,
but I know when we share spit,
it just lubricates comments
on our horniness.

I don’t know you well enough,
but I know your apartment —
your couch is too squishy
and your bed is too close.

I don’t know you well enough.
I ask if *** will ruin this,
but don't know what this is.

I don’t know you well enough,
but I sleep in your bed.
Your rolling-over motion
was disappointing,
but not unexpected.

I STILL don’t know you well enough,
but I know three unanswered texts
means your not interested
in telling me.

Or perhaps,
I don’t know you well enough.

I don’t know you well enough,
but I’m getting to know me
and I know that naiive
isn’t who I want to be.
Descartian Damsel in Distress
3.0k · Aug 2014
You are art.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Humor is funny,
because it is SO true.
Pop is a tune
because it rings true.
But art inspires
because it catches you


offguard —
you caught me
when you called me
beautiful.

You are art.
Really inspired today. Can you tell?
3.0k · Aug 2014
Graphite gratified.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Too lazy to decipher scrawl,
she took to typing.
But graphite gratified,
thunderbolts struck her empty.
Nostalgic for
the soothing scratch of pencil
as a child cloistered,
shuffled between states,
who translated her life
to pass the days.
Writing then vs. writing now.
2.9k · Jan 2015
Eddie takes care of me.
Irate Watcher Jan 2015
Eddie takes care of me.

Our heads laid neath
street lights, a wild sky,
turned wrong, then right
across the bend
we haven't seen —
just experienced.

Forgotten flock
with no stake,
who solopsize only
while hugging and kissing.
Getting old.
Craving more.

The harmony
of shucked
clothes guising
vulnerabilities
to someone
who will listen.


With peeled eyes,
and closed lips,
his hands ride my hips,
soft flesh meets tough skin,
collapsing in.

We look at the other.
Please the other.
Stroke the other
with cupped hands,
dead before bloom,
fallen,
uprooted.
2.8k · Apr 2015
Bonsai Avatar Tree
Irate Watcher Apr 2015
I've grown into a bonsai avatar tree —
trimmed and transplanted,
sitting potted aside a window.

Waiting until I'm ready.

OK.

I'm finally, I think I might be...

I'm not sure, but

I  am 99% positive

that I want the...

universe to shine upon me.
For rain ruining my day
to just water me.
To shed the seeds
that sowed me.

And branch accordingly.
So ready.
2.6k · Aug 2014
Sick simile.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Writing is like Ebola.
I consume it.
It consumes me.
Ok, I'll stop now.
2.6k · Nov 2014
Dear Fish the Pig,
Irate Watcher Nov 2014
The year you were born
was the year I turned 6,
leaving my second home
to a place where I didn't exist.
It was the first time
I remember being scared,
of a knock on the door
to a dark street corner,
not a voice to properly
enunciate my fears,

hands trembling,
I was naught a writer then,
just a poetic mind
inable, hands not stable,
to open doors to
concrete streets,
the gentle ****** or
the careful cat,

daddy loves you,
under my breath.
He only had time to run,
from place to place,
the most logical option,
for his career,
but not his young girl.
The world's forgotten friend,
having not a voice,
to say hi at the door,
or accept the house-warming gift
from the neighbor girl.

Dear Fish the Pig,
The year you turned 6,
I hit puberty.
Grew tusks,
that kept inching,
toward a person
hidden in the swamp,
watching beneath reeds
the blondes and skinnies
courting Hercules.
An ugly pink pig,
jealous of the swans
gliding across water
drowning my squeals for approval,
left behind from highs and *** and flight.
Snarling away the bugs,
company that could have been friends,
retreating to being busy,
terrified of high school eyes
that adjust to the darkness,
and call isolation insecurity.
No worse a disease.

Dear Fish the Pig,
The year you hit puberty,
I lost my virginity,
my naked body
a prime scientific diamond
to the boyfriend who
just wanted to love me.
Two heads rested upon his bed,
vocal chords distilled,
when I replied "love you too,"
and felt hollow inside.
His mirror cracked
with my scraggly hair and fat.
I was a treadmill mess
with no time to stretch.
My secret of the weighted, edible variety.
How could he be skinnier than me?
So I traded being a pig
for the femme version al him,
and gleefully changed
my nickname from stocky
to skinny-Minnie,
until I could wear his pants baggy.

Dear Fish the Pig,
two years from now
you will be 19.
Let me remind you of something
from someone who is 23
and is still uncomfortable with her body:

Don't be.

To be is a simple mistake
with a complicated result,

Because
A haute girl fainting in university,
isn't martyrdom for beauty.
It is stupidity.
Purging friends for a toilet,
isn't just punny.
It is insanity.

Dear Fish the Pig,
Don't turn your fantasy
into my nightmare.

Don't sign the loneliness
that wastes me.
Don't bury yourself in dust
it doesn't feel as good as the dirt,
knowing the roots,
and working through their kinks.

Dear Fish the Pig,
I admire your honesty.
Your struggles
make for great poetry.
But idolizing a girl with
skin pale as white roses
also made a good story.
Longing is beautiful
with the promise
of a happy ending.
But depression
sporn from jealousy
isn't so pretty.

Dear Fish the Pig,
wear your tattered clothing,
blow my mind
with beautiful melancholy,
sit in that obscure place to reflect,
but never forget,
your life doesn't have to be an indie movie.
Weave words into beautiful tapestries,
but when you tire of their decor,
go out into the world empty.
Tint white walls joyfully.
Don't re-write my history.
The words in italics are those of Fish The Pig. Go check out her stuff @ http://hellopoetry.com/fish/. She is awesome!
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
s u n
and
e a r t h

e
d                                c
e                        ­                    l
s                                 i
p

tired of fighting
over the

m o o n.
Resolution
2.5k · Dec 2018
Empty/full
Irate Watcher Dec 2018
When everything is clean
and in it's right place
I always think I'll feel...
content,
ready to
live my life
fuller,
happier.

But all
I ever
want to do,
is replace
what I threw
away.
To fill
the empty space.

And it's meaningless.
It's all meaningless
I'm just adding things to my to-do list and checking them off. But nothing ever seems finished.
2.4k · Sep 2014
Is this all there is?
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
My mom offers me a bowl of oatmeal she cooked at seven.
It is eight.
Sitting on the stove, it looks clumpy and cold —
a mash drowning raisins.
I pretend like I don’t see it.
But it calls my name as I start my day,
even though it looks repulsive
and I have avoided oatmeal since college.
I toast some bread.

She glances over the counter to see if I am paying attention  —
a reflex from my childhood.

Because as a child, 
my parents said I had selective attention. —
sometimes I listened and other times I didn’t.
When they got divorced, it got worse.
I was distracted by the bristle of my dad's 5 o’clock shadow
and the sigh in my mom's voice when they asked me
separately,

What time I needed to leave?
and
If all my stuff was packed?

But all  I kept thinking was:

Is that all there is?

You get married, get divorced, and cart around your kids.

The thought of swallowing this is repulsive.
like leftover oatmeal,  it stares me in the face.
I don't want it.
Most girls I know are raisins —
They already have their whole
wedding planned on Pinterest,
and their kids names picked out.
Everytime, I  see engagements on FB,
I can't help but forsee divorce
and I wonder why people run for a
partner, kids, and a mortgage,
when in college their
ambitions were more.
I wonder when their
mid-life crisis will be,
or when they'll wake up
and want more than
9 to 5 to fulfill a lie
patriarchy put forth.

So I spread peanut butter on  toast and
murmur, “I put the oatmeal in the fridge — someone will eat it.”
My mom puts her head down and finishes her coffee.
I eat my peanut butter sandwich.
I am stuck trying to answer an impossible question,
as she begins sentences like
"Once you get settled,
you'll want to look for someone..."
I tune out.
I don't have selective attention,
just the perception that
everyone is ignoring
this important question:

*Is that all there is?
Confessions of a jaded millennial
2.4k · Aug 2014
Off-season
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
Dominoes
tumble sunk
chests respiring

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


Short boards
spiral; foam
chaoes closing

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


howls
swell purple;
storm out slowly

Olas.
Olas.
Olas.


Wet suits
pepper
whitewash winter.

*Olas.
Olas.
Olas.
A surf-town in off-season.
2.4k · Sep 2014
Rebound
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
When the beat of your heart
is the alarm clock of my dreams.
I still have three more hours of sleep.
Crusty eyes nod off
as I put off the inevitable —
to empty your promises
of being faithful.

Cause last night I couldn't hide
red sober eyes that realized
I just wanted the wings
from your back.
I just want you to text me back.
And you did for awhile.
I kept you from texting your ex
for a while.
And for a while,
the strings of my heart
sewed yours together again.
Broken wings healed,
but fearing flight,
tearing mine.
2.4k · Jan 2015
mistress
Irate Watcher Jan 2015
She is high,
alive on
nouveau romance,
a libido kept quiet.

She is
ill-content,
flashbacks
withOut relief,
but a spark-plug second
her blissed-out blessed beneath.

She is
driving home
upset,
his rolling-over motion
this morning
was expected.

Frigid hands
clasping coffee cups
at Venice Beach.
She sighs.
Relief
is a sky of
lemons orange
and persimmon trees
and caffeine.
2.4k · Jul 2014
Salsa cynic
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
This isn't your mother's dance.
The wooden clave
seduces the naive  
into suave arms
of the night.

Quick quick slow
exalts wooden caderas
and untames silky locks.
Wrinkled hands
caress the caras
of clumsy coquetas.

In the name of the dance,
vestidos apretados
replace pants,
which men outgrow,
steeling blue eyes
in rusty miradas.

Mirandla.

Mira la guera,
como se toca,
como se mueve,
comos se salta el vestido suyo.


Mirandlo.

Look at him,
how he touches me,
how he swings me,
how his feet mock me.


Mirandnos

Ella me quiere.

We are JUST dancing.

Ayyy, como me pega.

We're close, but Salsa is intimate.

Oooh mami...

Does he think it's more than a dance?

quick quick slow,
quick quick slow,
quick quick slow,
quicK quiCK quICK qUICK  QUICK...

...silence.
they shake hands,
and thank each other for the dance.
2.3k · Aug 2014
Conversation?
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
She meets a man at In-N-Out.
He sits down, and she quickly tunes out.

Moves phone from the once vacant seat.

Don't worry, he said
I won't take your things.
Oh  — I was just moving it...
from your seat.

Averts eyes. Looks at feet

It's my first time here — I drove from Ohio.

Closes open apps.

Wait — you drove to LA to try In-N-Out?
Well, no, I'm headed to Vegas, but I
was curious what all the fuss was about.
It's 4 hours from here, and I have time to ****."

Opens Instagram.

You mean to Las Vegas, not Ohio, right?
Oh no — yea, Ohio is a 24-hour drive.

Tapping feet. Two people in line.

God, it's crazy here! (said w/incredulous chime)

Busy? Hah — try dinnertime.

Tags @innoutburger on marquee.

They told me I'm number 26 in line.

Misses his smile at the receipt.

I'm number 18.

Looks at feet.

But I just heard them say 23.
They'll call me.

Checks the time.

NUMBER 18!
I gotta run — that's me.

Well it was nice...

Leaves

meeting you.
Not a *****, just busy.
2.3k · Jan 2019
I am not wife material
Irate Watcher Jan 2019
No, I do not have
a circle of
wavy-haired
blue-eyed
dime-a-dozen
friends
who will
squeal
as I pop a bottle
of champagne,
and wear a sash that
says: "Same ***** forever."

I have never been comfortable
in groups or embracing memes
that are sadly, true.

Since I was a young girl,
I knew
I was different.
I never attracted
a consistent
group of girlfriends
as much as I wanted to
be accepted,
they eyed me with suspicion,
as I awkwardly attempted
to discuss lipstick shades,
as if it were the end of the world
should they chose incorrectly.
I never actually learned
how to apply lipstick correctly.
I still **** it up.

I wore athletic pants
everyday,
but I was not gay.
Their denim and tight
shirts just felt restraining.
When they talked
about ***** or ***
or periods, I just shrugged.
I didn't have any of those things.
I didn't beg my mom for an overpriced
prom dress,
because that's fiscally irresponsible
when you only where it once.
I didn't playfully avoid the boys flicking
cheez-its down my cleavage,
because I didn't have cleavage for boys to
flick cheez-its down!
I wasn't joining a sorority
because I didn't subscribe to
that version of sisterhood —
spending money I didn't have and
doing ******* I didn't have time for.

I was taught
as women
that our
mutual quest is to
waste each other's time
and money.
To make posters
and cookies for people.
To look and feel anything
but ourselves.
To strive toward
mediocre accomplishments
related to our wardrobe
and appearance.

There was no place for my
pragmatic contrarianism
as a women. I was supposed to be
overly concerned with the next concert
I was going to and dying my hair
a new shade of pink.
But whatever if I fail Spanish because
our teacher was a ***** anyway.

I hated being a women.
I didn't feel like a man,
but ****** if I would
be cajoled into a cult
where in order to gain respect,
I had to make myself small, less.
Even as I wrote this poem, I hesitated to
describe myself earlier,
as pragmatic,
because as a women,
I'm not supposed to define myself.

I was the most cliche misanthrope.
My outlook on humanity
was pretentious,
an amateur armchair
philosophy major:
They were the herd,
and I was a lion
with no interest
in chasing them
in their brightly
colored t-shirts.

It was late in college
that I started to realize I was wrong.
That there were plenty of
women who weren't the girls
from high school.
There were other outsiders like me.

But it wasn't until my mid-20's that
I didn't hate myself for being a women.
Hating my curve-less
body, how unfortunate
I had to bleed each month
when I didn't even feel like
I belonged.

It wasn't until I respected myself,
that I began to respect other women.
It wasn't until I stopped hating my body,
that I stopped prioritizing my intelligence
over others, especially when the men in my life
told me I was one of the smart ones.
It wasn't until I respected myself as a women,
that I could cultivate
deep and meaningful friendships
with other women.

I still hesitate to say
I have found sisterhood.
I still feel like an imposter sometimes.
But don't worry.
I will have bridesmaids.
See, I have friends.
They just aren't the kind
that make me wear a sash
gleefully declaring
my ***** prison.
They know me better.
2.2k · Aug 2014
wormhole
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
particles
bend in tune
time tubes.
words play.
2.1k · Sep 2014
data's equation
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
humans
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=

calculating humans.
Data-based personalization promises to solve many of humanity's problems, but also threatens to simplify and homogenize the code by how we live.

What do ya'll think about this?
2.0k · Oct 2014
Social media
Irate Watcher Oct 2014
I am just scrolling through people's lives,
wasting mine.
2.0k · Aug 2014
A Snowed-in Hero
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
You found friction,
when so many told you
to slip down with them.

You were the safety
to a gun-wielding chorus screaming:
"Fire!"

Shoved from the Fourth
you fought to protect,
to being snowed-in,
half a hemisphere away
from the coconuts
and palm trees you fled.

Hotel room to hotel room,
the flesh from your skin dissolves,
piece by piece —
like a nation's artifacts.

Resigned to watching
a comedian's suicide
trend on Twitter —
an individual who made it easier
to laugh and forget the words:
"Liberty and Justice for All."

You should grimace.
Silenced. Snowed-in.
Unable to even say,
"America — please shovel me out."
I made this poem into a video! http://youtu.be/KEFwC8C_WRc

If you like, share with #shoveloutSnowden
2.0k · Sep 2014
cultural corridor
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
concrete shades the yellow-lighted symphony.
The peso-heavy take taxis;
security valets motors steaming castle gates.
I ask, which way is the 158?
Indifferent, they say, walk straight neath the freeway
there is a bus stop two blocks away.

****.
****.
****.

Clocktower hands transpose Cindarella-brick
to embers of electricity,
a factory aside scrawled graffiti;
fingers timidly ricket pitchfork fences.
Palermo is 11 km north.
Where is the north star?

I look straight ahead, repeating what
the travel blogs said like,
Be lost, don’t look lost;
flappy plastic maps scream vulnerability.
Be lost, not rich;
iPhones in gotham alleys are batman signals.
Walk fast.
Don’t pay attention to the eyes that pass.
Careless ponytails and brass hair attract
glances back.

Two blocks deep into the homeless shelter
beneath freeways, blankets
in shopping carts toppled over,
cars screaming away the symphony
into shadowed silence between heels striking.
Tunnel breath emerging on the other side,
gasping past stacked Jenga towers,
wired with antennas and empty clotheslines;
families and crack ****** sleep inside.
Safety’s herd thins as  couples dart left down
cobblestone tributaries
that either lead to bus stops or parked cars.
I walk straight ahead with
sleeve-covered hands that swing like sticks
in the wind.
The symphony turns to
heartbeats and footsteps
plucking quickly;
fearing the 180 behind,
to zombies with sunken eyes,
thirsty for a thirty-cent high.
True story walking  at night in La Boca, one of Buenos Aires' most crime-ridden neighborhoods. Bless the soul who gave me bus fare back to Palermo.
1.9k · Apr 2018
And ode to hugs
Irate Watcher Apr 2018
I should cherish hugs more.
They come too frequently,
and leave too soon.
They are the farewells
of friends and lovers,
and life.
I could die any second,
and have missed
too many second hugs.
I love you
so much I don't
want to let you go
type of hugs.
Even the shallow, shy hugs
I'd miss. The nervous
quick, hard ones I should have
actually tried softer.
I say I will hug better next time,
but then I forget.
Next time arms are
around me too quickly,
or there is no next time.
The bottom of my throat
tells me there will be
more time.
When will I die without a hug?
Idk.
Better hold on to the last one
like it's my last.
Irate Watcher Jan 2015
Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.

Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the *******
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.
Let's start the year anew.
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