People, People, Lovely Little People
The crooning
Of the clocks,
The redundant
Machinism:
I am undaunted.
People
Too tired
Bereft of sleep,
Of reason,
Of life,
Of sex and fire,
Drugs and magic,
Souls raw
With soliloquy.
People
Too scared
To fall off ledges,
Off beds,
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Shatters
If anything is as tranquil,
As the rain that cascades by will
Then it must be certain,
That one exceeds another in time.
Oh, the life of a rain,
Is as ephemeral as existence
It blooms with life and dies in senescence
And in utmost vulnerability, dead from defenses
The rain shatters,
And breaks in oblivion
Caught in a crippling submission,
Drenched from all the filth
The rain proclaims
And crowns the man as king
Of its own world, with gems on his head
And loses its nobility before a word is said
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Seafarer's Diary; Berceuse: #5
The daylight beckons
Like a frail beacon:
A tired sentry
Unabashed from this onslaught.
I sift
From pandemonium of the waves
To the stillness of the slumbers
Away from the sea, girdled
To my musical floor.
The sea languidly harrows
As I unlatch my boat
And proceed to the treacherous sea
To sustain my being
And to test the morose waters…
And suddenly,
I feel nothing
And perhaps that is the secret to clemency:
A clandestine fortitude!
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Seafarer's Diary; Berceuse: #3
I am an automatic wanderer:
I lackadaisically brave
The riotous sea as I banter
With the Sun’s flustering fever
That the apertures of the promontories
Cannot sweat out with blood
And acrimony.
The sea does not need me,
That I am sure of
But I need the sea
For the sea has taught me
Everything:
From the sediments of my soul,
To the residues of pure flame,
A tormenting lament
And the chaos of trouble
Over these deceitful waters.
I set my nets in redundancy:
Anguished, exhausted
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Hummingbird, I Am A..
Perch atop a windmill kick,
You jovial hummingbird.
Hummingbird dance,
Hummingbird fly.
Hummingbird prance,
Hummingbird pry.
Hummingbird swift as a gruesome lance,
Hummingbird quipped like a dirty lie.
Hummingbird, give me a chance,
Hummingbird, you are a reason to vie.
Guffaw below the Sunlight’s trick.
You dismal hummingbird.
Hummingbird advance,
Hummingbird cry
Hummingbird of chance,
Hummingbird, die.
Hummingbird agile, like a brown, lucid avalanche.
Hummingbird drips like a resilient murky tributary.
Hummingbird, spare me an incendiary prose.
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Winter Pulp
The cadence of the wind striding
Resembles that of the restive exhaustion
Of the children wearing mittens
Beyond the Sun’s cold leash –
Or the chortling of the elders
As they read the newspapers
Subtly sitting on a suede chair
Relishing in the façade of the brazen
Winter, and every pulp of sodden glacier.
My hands are tremulous as the cold vapor
Of the bottle I am holding schemes
With the allure of the winter fate
Or winter serendipity and defeat me
With a foray that none can match
And that is – to render me wholly alone
With partial, fragmented hope that
Cannot be resuscitated and form a city
Of erratic allegories.
Yes, the winter pulp
I have been there – the winter’s pulp
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Sleeping In Flames
Even the mirror
Sleeps in flames
When you’re awake.
Tousle your hair
Asymmetrically purporting
On each of your
Frail shoulders.
I wonder
In a height that howls
What do you see in the mirror?
I watched you,
As you marvel at yourself
Spraying perfume
All over your vicinity.
I saw
A figure
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Drunk With A Fire
I am drunk as drunk
With that hazy stare:
A cultivated flame,
A windstruck inception
Adjacent to the sea.
Fluttering, like a celestial body
Carrying the pace
Of the waves soldered
To the weight of the lamentation
Of the trenches in their
Own dark territories.
The sea’s davenport basted
By the silhouette of your illuminated
Porcelain – your pillars are chained
With corporeal scorn and splendor
Like how the waves skid upon
The naked shorelines and back
Again, drawn to the hearth of the sea;
Groveling upon the deepest of wells,
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Your Closest Friends Are Dead
Look, fate is a finicky clamor.
Fate is a remote island,
Where nobody can reach
For the road to fate,
Is as jagged as the treachery
Of a thief as thick as blood.
-
Look, serendipity is dead.
It does not muse over your oceans,
It does not fly within your air spaces,
It does not burst in the eve of new year,
Serendipity calcified, serendipity is perverse,
It does not light up aglow in each verse,
Serendipity is your God, my God,
His God, Her God, that does not show itself.
(Sorry for the blasphemy.)
-
Look, the silence exists
Between the persnickety fate
And dead serendipity,
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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This Dog
There is a dog
A blood hound,
An ebony glare,
Finagled into believing
That the Sun is amused
In his own waiting.
There is a dog,
A surfeit among the pack
Carrying a luggage,
Meandering past the pavements,
Stops in his traversing
To freeze beside a street lamp,
Or an anticipating mailbox
Of satiety.
The dog sniffed,
And thrashed the vestiges
With his woebegone paw
Of gentle touch.
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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