A Farce Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

The system tells us
That we’d be opulent
Kids of our erstwhile
Misfortunes

But this vicious system
Will corrupt all of you
One by one.

Let me tell you
A farce
And perhaps,
How I bleed to die
And live afterwards.

Even the accountants
Cannot make themselves
Bleed profusely with numbers

The sages of the old
Have long died with their
Sagacity. We are left with nothing.

The businessmen cannot
Face a demise whilst
Wearing ebony suits and
Fancy silver things.

There are no deaths
In between bludgeoned numbers
And conversations about
The pettiest of things.

The salesmen,
The tailors of
Tailored lives and fleets
They can never die
In a soiree of clothing,
Of the gears that clash
During the hours of toil.
There’s no death there.

The doctors of white -
Tell the epiphany
And sometimes the epithets as well.
There’s no death in
Giving synthetic lives to others.
What a farce.

Now, look,
The teachers, the mentors
Cultivated us in cul-de-sacs
Like we are prized possessions
Clad with gold,
With bronze
Or any impenetrable material

But again,
What a farce!
They did not teach us
About
Lonely nights by a park bench,
Underneath street lamps,
Drinking with a friend named Norman
And bleed ourselves to death
By the capitol as the
Populace went on to white light
One by one.
What a farce.

Now I will tell you where death happens
And it will never be a farce.

In front of a typewriter
With wounds blatant.
That’s where death happens
With numbers
With people
With synthetic lives
With everything.

All else,
Just a farce
Trying to inject meaning,
Death and verve
In all the wrong places.

What a farce.
What a farce.