Machinism Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Sitting in front
Of the machinery,
I fumble upon
Its machinism
As I spill myself
All over this
Lunatic asylum
Which avails no succor:

My blood all over
The papers,
Literature flames afire,
My bones ache over
The pummels of the clocks.
I look so intact -
Still, a city incinerates
Inside of me.

Same nights,
An obscured pang.
I see myself
Gasping for breath
Inside photographs,
My skin slithers,
As the corrosive rain
Pierces me.

I build
To break,
And break to
Compose an elegiac
Retreat.

Death flourishes
When you
Have almost
Everything.