Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Rookie (April 28,1992 / Philippines)

Windsor Guadalupe Jr Poems

1. If It Alters You 8/2/2011
2. Tangerine Poise 8/2/2011
3. I, Of All 8/2/2011
4. Fanciful Dream Deferral 8/2/2011
5. Crystal Clear Departure 8/2/2011
6. Monikers And Registrations 8/2/2011
7. The Sleeper 8/2/2011
8. Castro 8/3/2011
9. Substandard 8/3/2011
10. Honorarium Bacterium 8/3/2011
11. Parachutes In A Dream 8/3/2011
12. Alive 8/3/2011
13. Nero 8/3/2011
14. Zero Visibility 8/3/2011
15. Shatters 8/3/2011
16. The Vainglorious & The Deaf 8/3/2011
17. Saturnine Dream Effect 8/3/2011
18. Jet Black / 4 8/3/2011
19. Can You? 8/3/2011
20. Seethe 8/3/2011
21. Of Pain And Quivering 8/2/2011
22. Queen In Repose 8/3/2011
23. Jet Black: 5, Final 8/3/2011
24. Jet Black / 1 8/3/2011
25. Jet Black / Prelude 8/3/2011
26. Some Boys, Some Girls 8/3/2011
27. Jet Black / 2 8/3/2011
28. Chandeliers In A Den Of Lions 8/3/2011
29. Smoke And Mirrors 8/2/2011
30. Fragmented 8/3/2011
31. Jet Black: 3 8/3/2011
32. Pray Tell, Child 8/3/2011
33. Frail Beauty 8/2/2011
34. Free-Verse Hurting 8/2/2011
35. Empty Vessel 8/3/2011
36. Basoalto (To Pablo Neruda, With Reverence) 8/7/2011
37. When The Moon Chokes 8/7/2011
38. I See My Lord As 8/7/2011
39. Eyes In The Time Of Stained Mirth 8/8/2011
40. Sleep Handsomely 8/8/2011
Best Poem of Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Again, Again, Again, Again, Again...

Some people are sodden
And redundant.
This is a mad carousel -
Mount each vessel
With an impassive resolution.

You can’t kill a man
Who’s already dead, darling.
You can’t steal something
From a man who owns nothing.

You can’t shatter a man’s soul
When he hasn’t any.
You can’t cut deeper into my skin anymore,
You’ve sifted the flesh from my bone.

Can’t you remember?
I guess some people aren’t only
Redundant and sodden.

They’ve got a bad case of forgetfulness too.

Read the full of Again, Again, Again, Again, Again...

Punching Raindrops

How senseless can we possibly be?
Half-man, half-beast
With a skin far from the sun-kissed
The frail rain coating the man from the back of the pain

The bulwarks of the brute and carnal flesh,
And the calloused hands of conceit
The dreaded day that he will rise,
Not from the grave, but from the memories

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