The Machinist

This flagrant bawl, the fore-and-aft of a misery lingers
Upon my lips as I nonchalantly sit here, with my hand
Cradling my forehead as the rivulet of the morose waters
That slither across the wooden table where the machine
Breathes its electric dysfunction billows over my respite.
It seals the chasms, the restless machine waits there
As if akin to me, with my lips ajar with cigarette -
I am a machinist and I am one with the soliloquized wind
Of the shamefulness of rue and bereavement -
A disease one goes through in a carousel, what a circus!

This stale drink that is quiet yearns to be caressed in a lustful
Joust of human flesh and glassware triviality – this loneliness
Is far from what the populace had told me: Loneliness is
Your own image in front of the mirror, trapped and desolate
As you stand idly askew.
These fools know nothing about loneliness – a sordid detail
That is passed on through tongues, over musical beds and
Fiery love-making as we rampantly try to eschew death by
Hiding in secret places, away from people, away from love,

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Shameful Soldier

Look at me –
Besmirching the whites,
And tainting myself eruditely,
Adeptly, with black – or something somber
I am morose with my pen,
And never logical
Never witty nor a blissful man
I am a wounded soldier,
With my pen and pen alone,
Shall I dine with,
Sleep with,
With poetry, I make love to
And that is all about
The creeping despair that I hold
And embellish with my pen
-
Look at you –
You are never a ruptured soldier
Apart from I, ostracized –
You are a saintly fellow

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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To All The Dames

To all the dames
Wrapped in gold,
Silver fame
And fantasy, bold.

Write you not on paper,
Write you not walls
This moment be somber,
Upon the lads that call

Upon your pillars,
Languid or full of vim -
Oh the dames, your wine cellars
They fill these lads to the brim.

To all the dames, stiflingly poignant
Askew are the lads with their flimsy hands
Upon the curves of a dame so rampant
That even the gods sigh in disdain upon lands.

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Last Words Of A Ballerina

A tulip on her skived lips,
Tucked safely inside the depths
Of her sapid orifice that held
Closely that it has evaded the mundane,
Is her tongue of drenched, prolix narrative.

I am her audience, among the crowd -
Shunned into the deserted avenues of her
City – the city that I rest asylum!
Her effeminate, lithe stance,
Her posing threat to the delicacy of my shambled
integument. Take it lightly on me, ballerina,
I do not have a whole lifetime to evanesce
Towards the plush gardens of your baleful ecstasy.

You have galloped all across the fire,
You have sunken deep within the Earth,
And you are vying to resurface -
To disengage from the quagmired waters
That do not ebb with a contagious mire.

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Sing Me A Swan-song Not

Sing me a swan-song not, the tacit allegory
Of all the shadows that squander in the squalid vale
When the Sun, kingly, circumnavigating in circumspect
All over the gardens of plush askance - sing me a swan-song not.

Sing me a swan-song not, pale lover
For as the ides dawn a marching twine
Here I wait, like a tavern-frequenter, longing to behold
The intoxication of your supple wine,
Your dank submission, and your obsequiousness resembling
A flower toadied; a stem of savvy mysticism.

Sing me a swan-song not, in and out of the madness
The drizzle upon the pliant seethe of gray fire carries
The semblance of the quietus: have you seen a taciturn storm
Upon a battered doorstep love? That is I, a calm tempest -
An angst-ridden farcical or perhaps, the behest of the lustre
Of romance. And so sing me a swan-song not, dear love
Traipse alongside in an entwined manner, a sequestering specification
Of the gracious moon in the midnight soiree of unsheathed dreams.

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Your Hair

Your hair, a city of chestnut brown
With locks resilient like hands, steady ambidextrous hands
And the chamomile bliss and breeze in the land,
Subtly sit like an orphaned child

Your hair, and the enticing air
Twisted and curled, devoured by a cicada
With pointed antenna beaming forward
Quantum leaps and celestial bodies reunited

Your hair, of soft and cozy feel
Buried me underneath the aroma
Of coffee-laced and inebriated mornings,
In the strands of the rays of the Sun,

Hanging by a thread,
Dwindling by the street lamps that flicker -
Ensconced in the premise of the night
And the eyes resembling a masked crescent moon

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Love A Mortal Who Writes

This be a farce dictation.
But then,
Love a being who writes

Because a writer
Is a liar.

I will lie about how the
Night flames with the warm waters
But you will never believe me
For I am a liar
With a pen and a paper.

Love a writer
For a writer is a soldier
Regardless of state:
A drunken soldier.
An arrogant soldier.
A morose soldier.
A burning soldier.

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Scent of a Woman

Oh, and what body does a woman hold
That men grow fond of it so much,
Never giving attention to her tender heart,
Supple skin, simple joys, clear ebullience,

Diamond eyes, strands of hair like the skyline
Scented breath like extravagant wine,
What of it? I do not know,
And the mystery of a woman

Lies not facile
A woman is subtle
She speaks plainly,
But the message is eloquent and dashing
A woman will forever be enamoring.

The laugh,
As she breaks in a peal of patrician laughter
The sound it makes,
Must and should be the greatest symphony

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Quintessence Of The Flowers

Pensively, come to where the garden is
With your feet sprinting through the brambly sophistication.
Pry - you never did, and you never will - for
The peculiarity of the flowers rouse the tides of your scruple;
The petals are tethered to the body so slender - modest
In a starburst as the malingering shrill of the flower is the
Catalyst of the somersaulting noon-time delight,
Caught by the fancy of this inveigle, the farce has been played out,
Dear agile lover - you dare not pluck this flower for you tremble
In the nullity of its feigned void - there is an augury to be found
In a flower: prolix, sapid and perennial like how the trees
Have witnessed the scowling of the heavens as the mire
Satiates each of the heaven's parcel!
You ask me incessantly now, that you have come to the
Acquaintance of the petals - these wondrous parasols,
The cantankerous thorns cloaking the flower's flagrant body;
These are no more than wry and insidious invitations:
A challenge to the eagerness of your heart to pluck the flower
Out of its perturbed garden as the beasts of the night trample a trifle morose
Anguish all over the tapestry.

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Paris Rain

Sitting on a porch
In splendid Paris as the doves
Guffaw and then scour -
We watch them flutter away
To their uncanny retreat: a slow resignation.
The candid lights flicker
And the sound of the automobiles are blaring -
The deafening cacophony of the sirens.
Among the foreign tongues,
She sips on her coffee as her eyes are filled
To the brim with enthusiasm.
The lights are trapped inside your eyes.
She told me, wearing her vibrant array,
Her mesmeric grin and her usual floral dress
That I have come to pick up in her absence.

The people chatter in a mad clangor
As they sprawl over their coffee
A rower came by underneath the winch
Where the river streams resiliently like

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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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