The Losing Streak Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Look at us
Carrying the rancid shamefulness
Of death and alcohol
As we try to keep
Inside ourselves
The fan of knives
Because we do not want
To be misunderstood.

We keep inside ourselves
The natural phenomenon
Of bereavement
Like a losing streak.
And we find ourselves cringing
In dark places - empty rooms,
Writing poetry or eating literature,
Writing death or eating the life
Out of ourselves
Sometimes I get this impression
That if time is impeccable
Then some being must have
Placed a superfluous amount
Of sordidness in people
With hearts that beat blood
And not hearts of stone

You turn away from
The populace, the city streets
With a bottle of gin at hand -
You're a sorry fellow if you
Don't know how to inebriate
Yourself - in inebriation
The losing streak becomes
A petty case of undisclosed
Theft

But when you're sober
Just like now, poking
Your guts out with a dry
Stick of solitude
You wish to hell that you
Either knew how to
Drink or you knew
How to kill yourself

There's just a slow attrition
That you want to hasten
And that is where the losing
Streak gains momentum
It's when you want to die
That death works well
With time
But when you want to
Catch an air of life
Time refuses,
That unfair, reckless
Figment of existence.

Let's just sit on our chairs,
Predict our deaths in front
Of the machine inside the
Even bigger, savage machine
That is
Life.