Spending the nights drunk
At a friend’s house,
The eerie howls
Of the lycanthrope at night
Make me tremble inside
My skin that shivered
By the breaths of
The blue, burning stars.
Whenever I drink liquor
With a friend, I set myself
On fire just to tell him
All the woes that I have
Kept inside like a caged lion
That hunts for blood.
I want more blood
But all the people around me
Are arid.
They talk about a singeing passion
For life and aesthetics
But cannot do willfully so.
I watched them contradict themselves
In this mad flurry of abhorrence.
I pour that silent drink
Upon the glass
The soothing trickle of the liquor
Upon the vessel made little
Susurrations of ebullience.
And I thought, as I sit there
Nonchalantly,
I wanted to be in front of
A typewriter
In the aesthetic of a drunken man
Writing about his death.
The painter paints his death.
The magician fabricates his
Demise. The soldiers
Face their death.
The drunkards go in and out
Of death’s window.
But then, here
As I write
I am as brazen as ever -
I talk about death
And face it
With the aesthetics of confidence
More than you
Do.
Windsor Guadalupe Jr
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aesthetics-3/
