One Carnal Invitaiton To Desolation Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Back to where you refute the last stain

Of the white pearl and black monsoon,

The masking face of the moon,

Is shedding its skin, slithering onto your face,

Your face of tenacious, scouring folds

Pertaining to what lust lies behind the fingertips,

Are sleeping arachnids below your bed,

Your bed of cobwebbed, wobbling sins.

-

In front of the mirror, deceitful, chronic anhedonia

Portrays a treacherous disease that can assuage

Almost everything from fragmented oblivion to the darkest stretches

Of the ethereal fields of squirming lies and snowflake

That dissipate among the skin, of tarnished topaz and ruby

The panache in the lips lacks the eloquence of a patrician blarney

All too surreal to believe, too bizarre to exist

-

Convince me in my dream, that I am not alone,

Then I shall flabbergast you with one, unfortunate scene

Of nostalgia, that would tell you so much of one more night

Lost in the effervescent Sun of fumbling comets and feigning coronas

Ergo, I hide in the darkest pits of my own self, stacking

Among shelves like hollow bullets billowing in the impassive face

Of a labyrinthine sorrow – the impasse, delirium speaks crudely.

-

Finding among prattling tongues and ragamuffin lips

Are sculpted dunes of eviscerating promises –

Promises that are eloquently bound in the pretense of one kiss,

Immensely hideous in the tenderness of the flesh

One carnal invitation to lies, to a beguiling forest of lamentation

The caliginosity speaks of one stern accusation

That I am lonely, though you are here with your luscious flare

-

Hallowed are the vines of your grapy, prolix breath

And so that when you say: You and I are one,

And that we are never alone, then I shall declare

One more stupefying stultification – we are alone

And that you are here to fill one space, like a spec of dust

Like a tick of the clock, one heaving breath, one lunging heartbeat

But never can I fill your inner pit, your pit that clamours what

The carnal vestibule, the preposterous goblet could ever supply you

I take it that the carnal invitation to loneliness,

Is asked and answered – with askance, for us, with us.

-

And so what are you doing in this obscured carnival

Of infamous sobriety, incognito?

Juggling balls of flame, are you a lost acquaintance?

Or perhaps, yet another venture into the eyes of one stranger

Longing, yearning to be known and set into stone like magic

And incantation, ridiculed by good riddance –

You do not fill my loneliness, and therefore,

Nobody can.

-

And so, like the city buoy

Raise your glass with your arms that tower

Over the feeble body of infinitesimal faith I hold

Ever so amorous for folded hands and crucified bodies

For with every breath there is one carnal invitation

To a revelry of all foolish men who wander about desolation,

And so this I say to you, with the fortnight looming over:

We are all alone.