...............his
between    chains & carnations
my silent disavowal to the night
the tethered  ropes of humanity
the pulp that ripens & rots
   before the first bite
    before he get’s to have it all
     the promise of an america   (lost era)
    we all fall
       amongst the bricks & poets
   the machines & hoplessness
     the starvation of the heart
            once we could all
  finally reach across
the earth
    it falls
it ruins of rhyme
with too much reason
  too much of everything
      left the future with nothing
yet here we lay
     dreaming of a big pay day
   ******* hope
    from between my legs
i love you
i love you
         ‘til I go away



6/12/11
b4 midnite sunday

What is it to be free in an unfree world?
Madness, as the only escape, is what I have chosen.
Madness in the sense of unrest,
Disavowal of the properties proscribing my actions
I smoke and drink to put off life
to ensnare nothingness with breath
and feel contingency take its hold on me
I want wine, furies and song to be my epitaph
and grasp at meaninglessness with two sweaty palms

I am not comfortable and never shall be
with this notion of decidedness and squalor of the mind
yet it is I

I know little of the great works and can hardly hold a pencil

This is where I meet myself, a worker, unfit for labor
exposed to existentialism and sick

I shudder, alone forever

Good things given to and wasted on me

I am death encapsulated

in this city's jungle haze
the mortar shells bricked gallows' glaze
every pause for which a breath was shed
has returned now to this blankest page of night
the constant newborn night that wants your haloed angel dead
(above)
from the feline night returning
the baritone blues
stalk halo's yearning
every lissome hustler
knows the answer
cuz he's got it in his blood...
blowing silk cut smoke
before God's greatest flood
(below)
now sapped in amber's
wedded stasis
a knife edge wrought
keen for the basis
of a clean cut amputation
of ***** lustrous hesitation
(equals) (static)
in gutted hovels by the hour
archangels sing of
God's illuminations
and sweetest disavowal

A tempest moulders in the distant air,
Obscured by darkness, thick with arrogance;
The intermittent rumblings make aware
That night of fright that skirts our sentience.

There is no use in preparations now,
The wrath impending is without withdrawal.
Would only we had heeded nature's vow,
The worst might not descend in disavowal.

Yet here we stand in pooling ignorance,
The very atmosphere our own regret,
For as the price of foresight's hinderance,
We stand to fare this evening sopping wet.

A tempest moulders, filled with looming light.
That we expect it shall not ease this night.

Every day I bare my soul
I must suspend my disbelief,
eradicate the need for affirmation
behind my every breath
so I can sing that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what.
These words must be trained
to spring from the shadows
unafraid to shout to the puppetmaster
their disavowal of its ownership
because they speak the truth,
the treasonous truth
from which I try to hide
but cannot
because they must be heard.
They will be heard
because for the first time
in these years of existence
I have the courage to declare that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what,
and still you are here.

pointing easterly,
azure skies of course
   this afternoon.
washlines drenched in
  high-sun,
precise contraptions
    deter spread of
anomalies seen daily.

  you tell me
hare's the fool
  you had once in your
 fledgling hands and died.
hare's foot
   is luck more than
imaginary.
  when no one is looking but
always i, keening in the total
    image -- it cannot
be you, impossible
   under ineffable skies
and twilight-erased  mud;

moments are   disavowal.
   you    like   the sound
so withdrawn   from  contestation,
  so easily your accurate self
liking   the   captured  dissonance.

you know   a fine day when
   it happens,
slow ****** of the vertical,
   highest  time to quit, bid for
a sequestered   place   free
      and absolute in variables: x is the lie.
all the intimate
    dark   you   pulse  with   the life
of   beautiful  horses

          gaining lightsome distance,
an approbative signal of technicolor
    painting   your   face  with   all
       things basking.
                     truant.

“It can be a very spontaneous state,
In restraining the inner spirit of angst,
A plethora of pain held within,
Parallels of a withering acumen,

Once in a wonderful sense of serenity,
Or was it a birth of total disavowal,
One cannot feel the venture aforesaid,
Comeuppance breath within my soul,

Need I succumb to such relentlessness?
As the inner souls foment impertinently,
Shall I reconcile to the assuage afore me,
As my soul unleashes it’s invigorating remedial,

As my spiritual guidance formulates camaraderie,
Now proficient anodyne of once a dreaded angst,
Shall I now attain that of a once absent love?
Whether this shall be for naught it is affirmed,
A reticence of my spiritual soul has been ameliorated”
By Andrew Guzaldo ©  11/26/2019  #174