Spending the nights drunk <br />At a friend’s house, <br />The eerie howls <br />Of the lycanthrope at night <br />Make me tremble inside <br />My skin that shivered <br />By the breaths of <br />The blue, burning stars. <br /> <br />Whenever I drink liquor <br />With a friend, I set myself <br />On fire just to tell him <br />All the woes that I have <br />Kept inside like a caged lion <br />That hunts for blood. <br /> <br />I want more blood <br />But all the people around me <br />Are arid. <br /> <br />They talk about a singeing passion <br />For life and aesthetics <br />But cannot do willfully so. <br />I watched them contradict themselves <br />In this mad flurry of abhorrence. <br /> <br />I pour that silent drink <br />Upon the glass <br />The soothing trickle of the liquor <br />Upon the vessel made little <br />Susurrations of ebullience. <br /> <br />And I thought, as I sit there <br />Nonchalantly, <br /> <br />I wanted to be in front of <br />A typewriter <br />In the aesthetic of a drunken man <br />Writing about his death. <br /> <br />The painter paints his death. <br />The magician fabricates his <br />Demise. The soldiers <br />Face their death. <br />The drunkards go in and out <br />Of death’s window. <br /> <br />But then, here <br />As I write <br />I am as brazen as ever - <br />I talk about death <br />And face it <br />With the aesthetics of confidence <br /> <br />More than you <br />Do.<br /><br />Windsor Guadalupe Jr<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aesthetics-3/
