Acquaintance In A Muted Corner Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Dead, muted corners
I sleep there,
Anxiously waiting for my hands
To pour some gin or scotch
On my glass, and the scent would stroll
Around the room
I do this whenever they’re tucked in bed,
Asleep
Dead
Safe and sound
Coiled
Hidden under shrouds of thick blankets
And heads filled with cotton –

I do this all the time
Where I plot a story
And narrate it to myself
And then consume the glass,
Think of dying now,
And imagining heaven tomorrow
That would be quality time
I am not misanthropic
Nor do I adhere to solipsism
I just like being alone,
Because apart from all
Of you, who try to seek
Perfection, and end up
Being morons,
Imbeciles,
Fools,
Myself, and I alone
Makes a good company
For myself –

That is why I never woke up
For school,
For lunch, supper
I missed the bus,
I failed to hail the train
On the station without the
Roof beams,
Don’t weep when I’m dead
Laugh at me
Don’t bring me bouquets
And eulogies
Rather think about my face
And my stench, and how it
Reeks from my skin, like sewers
And then recover my bottles of
Cheap scotch or whiskey
I only drink Whiskey on Sundays
Scotch from Monday to Saturday
You wouldn’t care
I don’t care either,
Your eyes have found me,
I don’t give a damn too well.

I am not a recluse,
I like being alone,
I have been attached once,
And it was not a
Pleasantry,
It was a curse
A deathly vision
An unconscious state
Where I slur in my speech
While on the phone
Calling God on the other line
Asking for help
And I will forever say in prayers
Not words of appreciation
But depreciation
Because my Scotch
Ran empty
She kept it inside her Jar
Not of alcohol, but of
Memories
Pulverizing mine,
Leaving me empty-handed

Find me in the corner,
I would care less
I would lock my doors,
Put traps on the door entrance
So you wouldn’t bother
A man who’s trying
To amuse himself.