Drunken Silence: #1 Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

A cloaked fire sitting debonairly
With her flowing crimson dress
With an ebony cardigan soldering
Her purity

I sat alone
Talking to empty bottles of liquor
Giving myself
Petty toasts and salutations
Of complete desolation

She looked pale
With her round eyes
That engulfed the whole
Tavern
She smelt of the moon:
Piquant,
Enticing – not my interest.

She didn’t dance,
Only tranquil there,
Taking diminutive sips
From her modest bottle
Of liquor – I didn’t know
Why I was looking

There were more women
Inside – some coquette,
Others lavish
And mostly, rubbish.
Sometimes it takes a
Soul to know what
A real woman is.

I heard a man call her,
”Georgia, let’s dance! ”
And the alleged Georgia
With the crimson-ebony mixture
Of fashion bobbed her
Head in flagrant refusal
And it looked so foolishly funny
That I chuckled
And she caught me.

She deadpanned
And walked towards me,
Holding her bottle firm
And said,
”Ever got beat up by
A woman using a bottle? ”

No,
But they used their
Hearts against me.
I never said it.