Venturing Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

Show me the kindness
Of the Southern-side, evading the downtown ruckus
I have fled with you, with a suitcase on the left,
And your hand on my right.

If we frolic like fools past the city buoy,
Could we see how infants turn into boys?
And how girls decode much of their decoys,
Are we going to witness it all?

And time, precious time
Flowing out of your watch,
The ticking of the clock resounds like heels,
On the rotund shall we run around in circles?

There's a mausoleum at a nearby bench,
And a balcony as high as the street lamps.
From there you could touch the sky, you can even masticate the lull azul
And the Sun would be our closest acquaintance.

The cantankerous walls decorated
With rebellious vandalism and solipsism
Render such caustic beginnings and plagued endings
What color shall we paint the town with?

Shall we try red? Crimson, sparkling and violent?
Or a mauve hue, earnest and prudent?
Turquoise perhaps, so the misanthropic light
Could not pass through its opacity.

Where shall we let this night pass?
At a hostel near a vineyard,
With the moonlight waxing over the vines
Sullying the thin lines of sultry veneer.

If somnolence would eschew us,
Then we should find something to pass the time
Jumping out of windows past the rooftops,
Pounce like a snake, gallop like a stallion.

If the neighborhood would soon awoke
In the midst of the banging of the rooftops because
Of our heavy steps, trampling galvanized iron
Then we shall make up for our flaws like repentant delinquents

You said there's a garden of tulips from here,
A hundred yard long pleasantry, enough to exhaust ourselves
Suffice to say that we lest drag our feet to get there
And rest would soon follow when we lay there like wan bodies

Look at the tulips, they have dried
The austerity, the harshness of the Sunlight
Drained so much of their dew, their flowery breath
Keep your chin hoisted, we're only half-way through.

Such facile art of truancy,
It's way too late to be sleeping inside ourselves
And being in someone else's lucid dream,
Does this appear too unreal for you?

When it is time to go home,
We should perhaps take the subway
And don't pay too much attention to the feet that went astray
They don't care about you anyway.


Does it feel good to be home?
Sound within the mattresses, lustful behind the walls
Or do you miss the Southern-side, yards away from memories
I have left my bliss there, confidently standing like a sentry.

So it would beam its light towards the streets,
Where it would encourage you to lift your feet,
And go straight to where the dead tulips, the turbulent rooftops lay
If you're ready, then we must leave today.

For tomorrow, you'll never know
When requiems will be recited, eulogies rehearsed
Let's pace slowly, like a chagrined hearse
Toward the never-rending streets of the Southern-side.

So there I came, with no suitcase on my left,
Only your hand, your hand of surreal affinity;
And the lines of your face varnished by such divinity,
All of which exaggerated by the Southern-side's beauty.