Do not lay your body upon my heart.
Quivering as it is would be a bad start.
You wont grow, for I have an infertile soul,
But I assure you I'm quite whole.
Problem is the lack of sunshine,
And a consciousness drawn by a thick line.
While I love you,
As you wait for our debut,
Do not lay your body upon this work of art,
For it simply would not be smart.
You wont grow, for i have an infertile soul,
But I assure you,  I'm only partial troll.

simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.

My friend puking out her Christmas dinner like a little girl trying to scrub off that uncle’s touch who tells her she is his favorite kid.
For her dad fat shames her every day.


My friend’s parents sending her to therapy because they don’t get how she can like a boy as well as a girl. Or rather don’t try to, because calling it phase is so much easier than explaining to the neighbors how that is who their daughter is. They are oblivious to what it is like to live in a home where you are treated like a victim of your existence.


My friend needs help, a little attention and someone to talk to.
His family is ashamed, how they could have done better for him, how they’re responsible for the things inside his head and I still don’t know what depression does to him, his family doesn’t like to talk about it.
They’d rather consider him possessed because anything is better than people knowing that he needs therapy and love and care. “Their son can’t be suffering from mental illness, they’re a happy family.”


My friend tells me she’s turning into her mother, and her mother let me tell you, she’s fabulous and fierce for she has been through things harsher than a lover who never says,'I love you’ but wants you to be their ***** little secret and you love them a little too much to deny. My friend, she had an anxiety attack last night for she can’t go out with her guy friends, neither talk to a classmate for too long because her boyfriend might start ****-shaming her. I disapprove and tell her she is not turning into her mother but when I sit in their living room, and aunty brings me snacks while talking to me about life within these faint green walls of the house and what did I eat for breakfast. I ask her to go out sometimes because there are so many things out there that she’d be experiencing and creating, friendship, weather, languages, people, art, emotions. And smell some sunlight in the lush greens fields. She says she’s not allowed to, like a kid calling its mother, "Ma". Her husband loves his ***. And her helplessly hazardous heart, too drained to take ‘harlot’ for a word from an alcohol-soaked throat.
The same walls that once adored their wedding photographs now question their love.


My friend’s girlfriend telling him she loves him but they can’t be together because she’s doesn’t want to be seen with him in the streets. But she seeks his warmth in the winter and leaves right before spring. He loses a little bit of himself every time she does that. He blames himself for what love does to him.


The woman who wears a heavy heart to the bed, finds it difficult to put herself to sleep, holds her dog for a little too long. Whose husband refuses to try therapy.
For I can't margin in metaphors, the agony within the wives who haven't been touched for years.
And the woman who feels a little less human after every night her husband forces himself on her. Because she's, his wife. His. Possession not prized but objectified.
The wife whose husband refuses to wear a ******, she gulps down pain every morning with the pills.
Families of these women, who were taught to think that is how the society functions and who are unwilling to unlearn.      


My friend’s brother asking her to stop wearing that short skirt around guests. There's a hole in her heart every time she remembers the traces his hands left on that infertile body of the kid that looked just like her. He pretends like it never happened.

mommy loves you unconditionally
even as you soar amongst the clouds
searching for the perfect timing
to come on down
please, forgive my impatience
i just have this undying urge
to have you here
in my arms, clinging to my breast
as i provide you with life
and you provide my breaths

little one, shining so bright
come to me only when you feel it's right
the doctors tell me otherwise
and my womanhood is of questionable might
but i know you are as rightfully my child
just as i am the moon to your night

an infertile mother will forever understand
why so many letters are written to our unborn
with shaken hands
why so many tears have fallen
why you wonder it isn't your calling
to be given a life of other plans

but i know you hear me, little one
and i know you love me too
and i promise to better preserve my body
so that it may be the perfect home for you
until you are ready to bless me with your smile; the uniqueness that is true
everything i do, everything i aim to be,
every dream i work so hard to achieve

i do for you

so please, be slow and easy little one
mommy needs preparation too
just know this,
when you've become tired of waiting;
when you're ready for the world
and you're journey has come to the point of passing through
watch for flashing lights
and smiling faces
and tears of joy
listen for songs of love

because i'll be right there--
for i've been waiting too...

just for you.

“To linger in the coarseness of such tribulation without her,
Angel of unsullied which admits no stain I am a noble man,
Edges of decision apathetic illusion satiated in dreams,
Will we depict with agony like vertigo amidst our lives,

In need for something convivial of exploits and adventures,
I cannot choose love in the doorways of infertile sordidness,
Anima falls into the luring darkness of lugubrious calamity,
****** away despair nurture the exigency that is moirai,

Romance of every ideology torments the romance of another,
****** off the rancor and the cognizance of root anxieties,
Once an effulgence of brazenly resolute bond with others,
Beautiful in creation is squall to cultivate as natality begins,

Uncertain fate gets bathed from your inundated minds of euphoria
Clench  your that guard you through deserted nights of loneliness,
Inward images so engulf one seeking affinity of future natality,
In the lateness of the world primal lamenting not to succumb to
Infertile Sordidness”
By Andrew Guzaldo ©  12/15/2019  #176

If a world is known by its ideals
Let mine be known as sanity
Let all men be infertile
And all women, stale
Let streets be known for sanitation
And all babies dipped in chlorine
All talk, sterile and sufficient
All excrement concealed
Let the youth of my predecessors
And their mocking vulgarity
Drown in a town of minimal design
And shocking similarity.

The pains so deep, it hurts so much
I try to smile but tears just flow,
I try & hide it & most dont no
I yern for a child.
Sickness, stretch marks, sleepless nights i'd take it all,
The pain would all be easier than it is right now.
I see people just complaining, they want a break, wishing things were easier & nights didn't go on so late.
Girls becoming mothers at a tender young age, not knowing what to do or to expect,
Others not caring not wanting things to change, just wanting life to continue as it did before,
Then there's those who feel angry that it happened to them, those giving up there children or hurting them in ways that i can't even bear to hear.
Whereas all i want is to be called mammy & feel that love so strong,
Id give them my all & teach them all the things to know, id play & laugh, teach & love & hold them in my arms.
I want to feel them kick inside,
I want to see that very first smile,
I want to feel their little hand grasp onto mine, hear their little laughs & hold them close when they cry.
Drity nappys im happy to change,
Getting up throughout the night would be a joy to see their face,
The expense dont matter, we'd pull though.
I long to be a mammy to a little boy or girl.

This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.

- Somme Harvest -

In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.

On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.

Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.

Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.

In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.

Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god *****’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.

Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.

A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.

As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,

The phoenix has nested.