The Night Laughs, Thinks Of Me Ill And Foolish Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The night laughs
As I am shaken
By catastrophic quakes -
This mad circuit,
A short, dry spigot.

And the drunken inamorata
Lays by my couch
As I blanket her with
A plethora of poetry
And whole of me:
Sometimes I can
Only give all of me,
But not all of the world
And somehow
This compensation
Is beyond mundane.

The night laughs,
Thinks of me ill
And stupid:
“You’re sewing your
Death.”
And I looked above
Craned my neck outside
The window
With the Earth sealed shut
Into slumber,
The night breeze
Hissing the omen
Of the moon.
And perhaps
The night was right
About how I sew
My death with my
Own sinewy thread

I sat down
Behind the machine
As if one with it.
The inamorata still
Sleeps, the light
From the fickle heart
Singes a high-noon
And I am most alive
In this quandary.

I pummeled the machine
As the words engraved
Overflow like a river of fire:
They will never take me
Alive:
The night, the stars,
The tigers of dusk.
And there,
As the night dictates
That perhaps
Another verve
Leads to another death -
A farcical cycle
But then,

I walked outside
Craned my neck
Again to see the moon
Still with its churlish grin.
I shouted:
YOU WILL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE.

And then the night lulled,
Baffled into clarity.
The inamorata still sleeps
And I whisper to her:
They’ll never take me alive.

I sat down again
In front of the machine
Crumpled the sodden piece
Of paper with attrition
And impaled:
They’ll never
Take me alive.

The only deal
In this is that,
It’s either they give up,
Or I die.