Jet Black / Prelude Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

And with his callow eyes,
That glimmers with the incandescent
He has laid sight, clairvoyant ilk
The suit of which he claims his own,

He has stormed the town,
With his body, scrawny from the bone,
With no further characters to hone,
The pendulum tongue, swinging, with a lethal backlash

He came across the town,
In a silver phantom fashion, with rough edges
And then juxtaposed himself on a sleeping train.
He sighed, and with its treble and bass forth stabbing

The train has come to life,
But the kid, still sleeping in the recoils
Of the skin, and the broken shin bone sailing
Where are you, impression of the senses blundering?

Restore my cinematic soul, filth-flavoured
The analogue mischief in a loquacious gesture
Has disturbed the sleeping serenity in the cradling arms
Of what carries a gun-toting disbelief, and poisoned acumen

The prattle of the tongue, and the misfortune of the hands
Long yearned for what seems to be,
A glinting fashion to cover up for the shortcomings
Of the young boy that pictures himself in the grey hues of clouds

“Then I shall call myself, Jet Black.” for he is heartless,
Only now, as a matter of fact, that brews hatred
The enmity smells like stale flesh and catapulted children
With javelins across hearts and leopards rushing down veins

He tried the suit on, young and feeble Jet Black
With the power encroaching him, like the veins that coil the wood
Or the snake that has misled the entire human race of trying-hard saints
And turned them into thieves that recite blashpemy

The vagabond feet, longing to go like the smoke that drifts
Like plates of the intercontinental, transatlantic false hopes
Of bloodshed beliefs that stemmed from misconstrued poetry
Appeared like a headless man carrying a scythe, farcically cloaked

The twilight spins madly, in the direction of the monsoon
Whereas the stars fell down in a spiral staircase architecture
And landed on Jet Black’s suit, alongside a tie that flows like a river
Bridging gaps between pits with forked metal and calming the burning ember

He pranced in front of the mirror, delighted with the vision
That he, himself, named untouchable from all that stirs above the horizon
He feels sorry for the tattered clothes, they must have grown weary
Of Jet Black’s purest intentions from fountains of a cold, frozen heart

The mountains have detached from the world without roots
And the plants have withered and died when Jet Black set foot
On the plains of ethereal, no, he is ethereal and not the plains
Because Jet Black’s clicking heels have made the soil bane

The scourging at the cranial walls have crowned him,
The king of fatality, and the peasant of gentle kindness
It has rekindled his sight once more, the sight that he has lost
Because people previously dictated vicarious eyes for Jet Black

Now he is on his own, alongside the Coat and the Tie
Both of which have made him almost invulnerable from what has punctured veins
Again, the heels clicked once more, bellowing antagonism
The concord was lost, and has exiled the protagonist.

Sheer nightmarish thoughts in the surreal reality
Have welcomed Jet Black with a feast that is abundant
He was pleased so he aligned his tie parallel to the skyline
They all adored Jet Black, with their redundant praises

He sat on his throne, the throne that anticipates the king
The self-proclaimed king, now the king of kings in a jet black suit
And with an abysmal tie to go along with the suit that wreaks nothing
But the blemished content of the salient mind, the fiend of the blunted

Jet Black, Jet Black.
There’s no turning back.
Once you’ve worn the suit that clamors for your dominance,
Then it is clearer than a religion’s blighted inheritance.