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Guss Dec 2020
The bitter cold snapping at my minds door,
As I sat there thinking on the floor about things I did before,
The rain I’m sure was coming in for a week or more,
And I had scraped out my insides to the bone of my core,

When I,
When I close my eyes,
I see you singing softly baby,
Take me back to paradise.
When I,
When I close my eyes,
I see you singin to me
and I’m back in paradise.

I scared away the fear,
But always waiting for the time,
Where I would see you callin’,
And we could go back to our crimes.
It’s only with you that I wanna die,
Like Bonnie and Clyde,
I will stay by your side.

When I,
When I close my eyes
I see you singing softly baby,
Take me back to paradise.
When I,
When I close my eyes,
I see you singin’ to me
and I’m back in paradise

I scared away the demon
That was chasing me all this time,
But when I hear you voice babe,
You’re killin’ me,  
And it should be a crime,
But baby you can **** me
you can **** me any time,
I’m just sittin’ here on the ground wasting all my time.

When I,
When I close my eyes,
I see you singing softly baby,
Take me back to paradise.
When I,
When I close my eyes,
I see you singin to me
and I’m back in paradise

She needs me to give her back her wings,
She didn’t have the heart to tell me,
I hade taken all these things.
My only play is to give her what she needs
And hope that when I close my eyes,
Shes what I see and I’m back in paradise.
Guss Dec 2020
More the I drink,
The less you do,

So Death is walking with you,
And walking with you,
All alone,

The hate you breed is made for one,
And the drink you took was made for fun, So why is it,
you are alone?

Two hearts or three,
The more the strength,
Two tongues at least,
Should be the length,

The blood it needs to be pure red,
The worse it is to use the dead,
Don’t fail to use the ***** flail,
With rust and mold and hair assailed,

Then spit on dirt and churn the mesh,
For bone will rot like all the rest.
And death will take with curse and sail
And whisk you off to your own hell,

This curse is made with hate and power,
With all four corners,
And angels power,

Don’t doubt the strength,
Of birth and death,

The first and last,
Will be your breath.
Guss Dec 2020
I scream into the void,
silent, but in my silence, louder than all noise.

Accepting of the role to play
in loving unconditionally.

It’s not our fault it happens.

In love,
we’re all just as innocent
as the day
that we were born.

But I have to ask,
are you still able to hear me?

I lost my compass and my passion.
Yet, I’m sure, you, of all people can hear me.

Can you?

It’s so hard, to keep remembering things. The smoke of fires ember in September brings.

Four broken ribs and my heart to cleave, the spell you’ve cast remains unbroken.

But no pain is deeper, scraping and meeker than the loss of my Chicago stinker.

My pangs are not of love.

For sights, and sounds, and tastes, and smells are nothing. Never mind to touch your body.

I see now where I failed you, it was when I failed myself.

It was as the curse of my pressures rolled and churned about on the inside spaces of my peasant flesh.

In the backwater swamp of myself, a reptile slithered between us, sloshing amongst the putrid remains of its kills.

My own precious vermin.

Free me from this awful spell.

Or **** me.

I don’t care.

But whatever you do,
don’t leave me here.
Inspired by loss. I lost everything over quarantine, my job, my woman, my place. I was living in San Francisco at the time and there was smoke everywhere for week and weeks. I was not my best self and my partner didn’t like what she saw. Now she’s gone.
Guss Nov 2017
The angry tortured Screech of a long-awaited shot of fernet.
It was filled with chatter.
It was never good enough.
It was Salesforce lingo.
Guss Jul 2016
To Whom It May Concern:

I have been an artist since birth
but clearly not genetically.
My mother was a dentist’s apprentice,
while I was in the womb.
My father was a quirky astrophysicist
and still amidst the devils,
he is yet to find himself.  
I on the other hand make sandwiches.
I make sandwiches,
I take photos,
and I write the things that I sense
or that I think I know.
Very simple.

I have never been one to understand the American dream, but I do respect my need for it.
I knew the idealistic trend of the Internet very well,
as I was raised in Silicon Valley,
but the phrase “From rags to riches”
never really penetrated my questioning soul.
--------------
Instead,
I found that the world was my oyster
and I gregariously lived my life in the pursuit
of one-dollar oysters.
I have watched the seasons change.
I have known the plight of love
and I’m even wise enough
to lead my heart by it.
Elisa would tell you.
--------------
I have gawked at knobby shadows
falling on a wall traced out by a winter tree
and then been entranced by the odds
that I might be the one
who sought out that beauty
having been there to see it too.
But more so,
I have seen births.

I have seen the vibrancy from which life unfolds.
And I have seen the clenches of deaths fingers
wrap around the neck
of my most honored and beloved people.
I’ve seen beautiful cities fall prey to oversaturation,
I’ve watched the crashing waves
of the Pacific Ocean **** in pollution,
I’ve seen fires blaze through
the mountain sides of Santa Barbara,
and I’ve watched the shoals bats that fly
at the twilight summons from underneath bowels
of South Congress Bridge,
which is never bad.

I’ve made friends,
and I have made enemies
both of which I love.
I have been sick
then been healthy
and respect the values of their lessons.
Some of the other things I’ve seen
I’ll admit are unimportant.
--------------
But I still watch the trickling patterns of rainfall
and ponder at their stories.
I still squint at the gleam of the ocean
and beg it to tell me its origins.
I will always gaze at the sky
and I ask for a gust that might make the hairs
of my arm tingle with delight,
or nostalgic sorrow,
or anything at all.

I’ve questioned everything but what my mother told me.
Not until I turned eighteen, did I start that.
I’ve built batteries out of vinegar, aspirin, pennies
and copper wire.
I charge the insight of my peers
by poking and prodding.
I can braid hair,
I can hop scotch,
I can play the juice harp.
I fight for the underdog.
I fight for the tormented.
I speak for the scolded,
the hated,
the sad,
the abused,
the forgotten,
the forsaken,
the foolish,
the sinning,
the begging,
the beaten,
the overworked,
the shy,
the lost,
the hungry,
the bilious,
the old,
the gruesome
and the dead.

I feast on alcohol
where there is no other sustenance.
The rhythm of chagrin bounces in my chest,
as a drum would beat
in a symphony of regret.  
But I strive on
as if it was a sacrifice to the holy aliens
that made the Maya sacrifice too.
This is my blood.
It gushes from my blue veins
as I apperceive the meaning of that throbbing pulse.

I know the consequence
of the truth behind our movement.

A world founded on humanity,
imperfect and failing at all.
Life in this universe must be special.
It’s the stardust in our physical,
human elements that makes this magic true.
We ooze with the likeness of nothing else.
Our ancestors welled up with stardust
and DNA from somewhere else.
Our sweat, made up of passing galaxies,
dripping tears of organic thought
into the trickling river of time.
That alone must be something
to capture an imagination.
Guss Aug 2015
The crucible was a battle
fought by two sinners
both likely to sell the other out
or to shoot one another.
One wore a necklace
of tight inlaid shininess and red.
It was laced with a satin bow
and imbedded with an insignificant little ruby
tied around her neck,
her lovely ringlets hid in the sunshine.
She knew her life was sacred.
Mostly she was right,
but christened in her own right,
it was never suggested to her
that there was any other way around.
The darker side was originally ambivalent
to the nature
of the afflicted golden ringlets.
Thrashing and fighting it,
he, the darkness,
was finally struck with love.
The ambivalent subsided beneath
the imaginary plinth he prayed at,
and there he prayed.
Retorted only through silence as most gods do,
God responded.
Each time the ambivalent shook
and chattered his teeth
as his fears were becoming
all so real.
Waiting to hear a sound
And nothing was there.
He understood the emptiness.
He was truly suffering,
but ultimately obliged to the goodness
of every single perfect ringlet
that made up the woman’s hair.
He knew the repercussions
of going on in other fashions,
and chose instead to end it there
before he had her locked in all their passions.
Guss Jun 2015
Hearts.
Pleasurable, they break.
Kid with soul decides his future.
Walks down hall with door,
man with soul divides.
Door opens.
Leads to nothing.
Man dies.
Man grows back.
Chances take a hold.
Congruencies clash together.
Metal sounds of clatter.
These divisions are the fractions of human kind.
Trickles and patterns are hardly literature.
Quantifiable.
Cultured.

Bang.
Bang-bang.
Banging.
Thick is the heart.
Thicker is the melody.
Stoppers.

Man defines himself by patterns near.
Man dies once again.
Theories change.
Hearts do too.
Man does as well.
The life is what they seek.
Never to be obtained.
Man lies.
Heroic he overcomes.
Then he pulls at her shirt.
There he beckons.
Then man rests.
perturbed
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