Scrunched Blue

There are more terrible places
Than graves.

The marketplace,
The carnival,
A flophouse,
The train stations.
The cold concrete stares
At you like the abyss.
And it only takes
So short to realize

That in these broken places
We are most alive.

poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Braving The Chasms

I was never born
Superstitious
Or with a fervent
Inclination to
The supernatural.

There is a brazen
Comfort in a funeral
And this oddity
Rouses the soul
In me -
A frivolous entity.

A comrade said that
A ghost – an icy vesper
Passed by.
A white specter
Sent to abeyance.

”That was a ghost.”

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Moon Eater

At night I writhe
Over the despondent grass;
The moon impoverished,
Its entirety guzzled into a
Harlequin crescent
And I see her past one
Of the night's curtains,
Freezing, devouring
Half of the moon
But this I do not know of
For she is in the expanse.
As I lay on my bed
Corrupted and soliloquized,
Gazing at the crescent moon
Far-flung in the downtrodden azure
Thinking,
Where hath gone
The half of the moon?

poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Dire Manhattan #3

Walking aimlessly
Past the sleeping terrain
Of Manhattan
At 1: 30 in the morning,
Thinking of a place
Where I could crash and burn.

The wind cradled me
And caressed my chaffed lips.
The cars were scant
And the smell of forgotten love
Flourished.

Alone, fretting in the dark
Underneath the stark abyss,
I was submerged in the pretentious
Moon-glazed concrete of quagmire.

I will never be the same
Underneath the Manhattan skies.

poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Women Of The Marketplace

The black market was clogged
By the preoccupied populace
And there as I sat
In front of a kiosk
On a badly-beaten russet chair
That creaked everytime
I passed kinetics and physics
As I fancy my lips ajar with cigarette,

I saw women
Going in and out of stores
With paper bags and lavish shoes
Sprawling, lingering upon
Their silken skin

And I noticed that there
Are two types of women:

Women who leave
Without closing doors

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Blunders: #9

Tonight
We are snared
By the void.

And then
She’s foolish
For saying

“I look old,
And decrepit
And life has left me.”

And I remained silent
As my viscera trembles,
My heart laughs.

She buried her face
Underneath the mattress
And I told her timidly

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Black Nocturne

Black nocturne
The vacuum that confiscates
The entirety of the city
That was incinerated
By the flames of incarcerated
Musings

Black nocturne,
You are an omen.
A shattered glass,
A howling moon,
A glass house on fire,
A submerged knight
On a grotesque chariot.

Black nocturne,
You are the fire
In the shriveled waters.
You are the air
That shrills the eviscerated

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Unobtrusive Sobriquet

I am-
A rusting vessel,
A chipped tooth,
A decrepit establishment
A bent merriment

I am-
A screeching tire,
A fragmented glass,
A jagged pass,
A blue flame of one’s ire

I am-
A marred moth of impeded flight,
A maimed snake of sluggish slither
A clangor of feigned laughter
A dead sea

I am-
A filth of the sewers,

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Seafarer's Diary; Berceuse: #1

As I cast
My soliloquized nets over
The ravaging seas
In fathoms, it occurred to me like fire
That the sea
And I hold
Different, halted breaths.

I listened to the sea
On my forlorn boat,
The sea’s delightful wind
Stifling my hair in a mad strife.
The sea – desiccated wryness:
The stillness, the sea’s demise
After a parade of waves
Is what enrages me the most.

I careen towards the wooden flail
Of the boat and there
I sojourned to listen to myself

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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I Walked With A Tiger

I walked with a tiger,
In his own maimed pace
And I found myself
Spineless,
In his soles,
Tiger-legged and tired.

Spangled with stripes,
Disdain, an ebony river
Of rue.
The hue taints the blood
The poison intoxicates
The night,
The feet of the gods dangle
From the firmaments
And the cicadas complain about
The scant rain.

I walked with him,
Tiger-like,

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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