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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=471131" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Behind The Machine Gun</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">There are nights spoiled<br>like women dancing with macabre, <br>men praying in pub houses<br>both soaked in the belly<br>of licorice and blood-colored<br>soldering of chemical spirits, <br>like children sleeplessly lying<br>in beds without bedtime stories; <br>parents making out with whores<br>in a nameless stag diner, <br>like these moths suspended<br>in my cobwebbed chandeliers</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These somber nights would <br>sometime trample in the crevasses<br>of my womanless bed<br>crying a song to my spine<br>and clinging to the crowfeet<br>juxtaposed my cellar eyes<br>and what I would do is: <br>connive with the varmints<br>and try not to hide the sordid<br>and vile words rummaging my guts</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What I'd do is: <br>I'd open the shutters and welcome<br>the machinations of the night -<br>The still vehicles, the sensual hounds, <br>the morose streetlamps<br>trying to crawl the lissome, <br>svelte, undulating electric lines<br>I'd steal a cigarette stick and light<br>to let the incorporeal hands<br>probe inside my ribcage, <br>touch the collapsing tubes<br>close enough to the intimacy<br>of the mechanical blood valves</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when I realize with<br>everything in line for the sepulcher<br>I would sit behind my machine<br>fire the tacit shotgun and allow<br>the disturbed sparrows to become<br>my terse alphabets and that<br>is how I come with poetry -<br>as the squalor in mollusk sex<br>the muse is dead like the story<br>of an effaced morning glory </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Isn't it wretched? <br>Poignant and putrid? <br>Like how everything in the night<br>is fecundated by raw emotions<br>as sanguine as a senile coma<br>dreaming of a euthanasia<br>or another chance to divulge -<br>to be hauled out of the quagmire<br>and again, desecrate upon creative hands<br>the cicatrix yearns for more blood, <br>the tourniquet gripping the hematoma; <br>searing with all the valor<br>that can be supplied to the harried night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Norman+Santos">Norman Santos</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=471131" data-title="Behind The Machine Gun de Norman Santos" data-description="There are nights spoiled
like women dancing with macabre, 
men praying in pub houses
both soaked in the belly
of licorice and blood-colored
soldering of chemical spirits, 
like children sleeplessly lying
in beds without bedtime stories; 
parents m..."></div>
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