‎:Bed sheets like wire threads:

‎:Bed sheets like wire threads:

there is this purpose well driven, hidden behind the sovereign pontification of my ring finger, itching that five star part.

It's reverence, like soluble decadence, showering more than the masticating of thoughts.

our pre determined waves of nostalgic circumstance, cowering, blindly stimulating, all-ways intact.

The curse, void of sun lit shackle, in defiance, our roar springing like accountable mourning.

Because our morning is here.

Pushed onto, Born into this semi confusion, linked by memory of vintage position.

Collapsed recognition by renewal of division.

I sit awaiting the day, you ask of me in silence.

Our chariot of unspoken thrive.

A balance of equivalence.

Our unshared position of sarcastic posture. like rustic annoyance , through shepherds gaze.

I await you in the asking of silence. 

- Adam Guerra

Posted 06/12/12

"To the wolf, to the wolf"

‎"To the wolf , to the wolf

Like the stalking of stoic sentence,

the rapture in these still beating palms.

Hesitant disregard by formality,

lifting emphasis, worn out.

Ill commotion, the lavished condition, 

setting back hands that break

time, it's re inventive stabs of made up leisure, 

corrosive trickles of misused conundrum.

Like faceless moments of uncommon goals,

our minds flock bequeathed under the scorching of reinitialization, 

ticks and tocks of luckless nothing.

We wait for the dirt to seep through the wound.

Because to the wolf, to the wolf.

Written By Adam Guerra

Posted 06/08/12

"Cigarettes"

"Cigarettes"

We are Flies.

As pure as snow, we are flies.

A mass of re invented leisure , misled and cut out like paper mache dolls, contending with the idea that we need the volume of silence turned up louder, because the wind seems to blow us away with its booming gusts and violent sways.

The same audible sound as of bombshells to the clasped ground, as of finger tips hitting stringed instrument, as of flesh to flesh.

This is the part where we turn into robots, and our hearts turn to machine hearts and our minds' to machine minds, we enter the program and default our lives to non human.

We live blind and happy.

Written By Adam Guerra

Posted 06/06/12

(((((Little death and the mailbox))))))

(((((Little death and the mailbox))))))

I had always wanted to varnish the misconceptions of my life, wrap them up, bandaged

and bruised by war, because we are entitled to this massacre of emotions and drop

dead dissemblance.

Silence seems to defend most of the radical insight that deems worthy in my mind,

calloused and subjective towards fever based concepts, involving the changing of my

own conscious demeanor.

Yet I remain in this slant of ambivalence and nocturnal non sobriety.

Forcing vintage, marked burns, tattooed on the farthest corner of my brain.

We are unkept.

Forced by maladjustment and social paranoia, to conform in bouts of disarray and

perpetual madness.

Though, our numbing outline of ideas serve purpose, the second glance of questions is

variably put into circulation. 

Am I alive?

Am I dead?

Am I really me?

We all serve our selves with hope and a side of faith based reassurance, but when the

piano trickles down the keys and you feel the low end bass tone that curls your toes

with uneasy restlessness, only than ,will you know that there is no such thing as truth,

only evaluative response.

By fraying the stringed nerve endings.

My collective mind will share with you:

The binding of hands. 

The wiring of mouths

The addiction of conditioning.

Written By Adam Guerra - Posted 05/12/12

((((((A Ghost in the Room)))))

‎((((((A Ghost in the Room)))))

From every angle he felt the depth of singular emotions, first came the notes of her

voice, frozen in slow motion in front of his eyes, casting little spectrum of color from the

closet light that had been turned on the day before.

He began to reach for the sounds but failed to realize his mind playing tricks on him.

To him there was no ocean he could not cross.

No mountain he would not be able to crush.

Tornadoes had no budge to his thick framed mind.

He was a champion that night, playing with her voice like a violent orchestra that would

shake the feet of any classical master , palm muting and finger picking away at her

beautiful figure, her mind was his music sheet and his memory of her was his

instrument.

In great timing he would create simplistic tone and euphonious image that rendered

canvas and oil paintings to create genius image.

To him, there was nothing more in this world but the smell of her skin.

No anchor that would be able to keep him still.

Black holes had no pull to his thick framed mind.

He was an artist that day, with premonition to even make a broken heart into a

showcase, illustrating the common ideas of four chambers, complimenting the four loves

of this world, infusing the brush strokes with emotional value, remembering the color of

love and laughter, closing his eyes as her musical notes bathed him in salvation.

She was louder than thunder, She was louder than his own thoughts.

He lives in New York.

She hasn’t seen him for 8 years.

He waits patiently with the closet light on.

Written By Adam Guerra- Posted 05/12/12

((((((((((((God is dead, Let's go to sleep)))))))))))))))))

((((((((((((God is dead, Let's go to sleep)))))))))))))))))

It was relevant to me, as I sat in this stoic isolation, that luck is a fabricated story,

endlessly sought out by charms and relics, to infuse bastardized thoughts onto men and

woman.

There is no end to my macabre foundation, in sight I am of statue, in audible

conversation , the collapse of the twin towers is a complimenting sound.

Care to run down the stairs with me?

We will count the bodies thud on the way .

Lets face it, we are karma, we push onto our own will and excuse ourselves by placing

the figment of greater known stories not yet held as fact , but by imagination.

My imagination is God.

My imagination is Dead.

My imagination was a flow of ink.

My imagination is a worthless fuck.

My imagination has no vows.

My imagination is a mushroom cloud in the garden of Eden

My imagination is.

Shame is the disfigurement towards the guilty, but the social norm puts in policy for the

counter culture to act as if disfigurement is a birth right.

So the cruelest of jokes is played by fallacious remarks and contended insight to the

abolition of what “we all believe” versus “what we know “, the subtle contradiction of

this quaint match seems poignant and out of breath.

Try to keep up with the race.

Written By Adam Guerra - Posted 05/10/12