Behind Your Motorbike
Your not so subtle
sagacious whims
cradled in brass knuckles
flummoxed
when you stripped
the callused skin
into a brusque
mad sea
of enigmatic
enthralls -
Have you seen
the albatross shuffled
its seaward compass
inveigled to your
thermal fan?
Where were you
behind the machine
that bludgeons
your words -
a rivulet of
well juggled daggers
double-edged
gambles?
Inside a chamber
stale as brittle bones
but the vulnerability
exonerates
the shy lacquer.
As you basked
in the piquant taste
of squalor
in your red cigarette
concealed behind
the blearing smoke
and the dry beer
rummaging
with you words,
Your soul -
soused in a quagmire
of kerosene
awaits for a fire
to ignite
your oblivious nights
We basked in the luxury
of your hidden empire
and wager for the sight
of its saluting banners
The air sculling
into your body
as you tear the streets
in a moonless night
in your motorbike
sifts into
a comely rubble
So stretch your arms
and let the cold
gnaw unto
the intoxication;
Let the shadows
cast themselves
in cobwebbed strings
but do not run
away;
And do not chase
the beacons of your
headlights
Just breathe in
for today
and spew the cheap thrills
for these shabby
little heavens
perched upon
your reticent palms
poem by Norman Santos
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Related quotes
Behind The Machine Gun
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 making out with whores
in a nameless stag diner,
like these moths suspended
in my cobwebbed chandeliers
These somber nights would
sometime trample in the crevasses
of my womanless bed
crying a song to my spine
and clinging to the crowfeet
juxtaposed my cellar eyes
and what I would do is:
connive with the varmints
and try not to hide the sordid
and vile words rummaging my guts
What I'd do is:
I'd open the shutters and welcome
the machinations of the night -
The still vehicles, the sensual hounds,
the morose streetlamps
trying to crawl the lissome,
svelte, undulating electric lines
I'd steal a cigarette stick and light
to let the incorporeal hands
probe inside my ribcage,
touch the collapsing tubes
close enough to the intimacy
of the mechanical blood valves
And when I realize with
everything in line for the sepulcher
I would sit behind my machine
fire the tacit shotgun and allow
the disturbed sparrows to become
my terse alphabets and that
is how I come with poetry -
as the squalor in mollusk sex
the muse is dead like the story
of an effaced morning glory
Isn't it wretched?
Poignant and putrid?
Like how everything in the night
is fecundated by raw emotions
as sanguine as a senile coma
dreaming of a euthanasia
or another chance to divulge -
to be hauled out of the quagmire
and again, desecrate upon creative hands
the cicatrix yearns for more blood,
the tourniquet gripping the hematoma;
searing with all the valor
that can be supplied to the harried night.
poem by Norman Santos
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Where I Won't Hide
I traipse into alleyways
where the hellhound scampers
for the abundance of prospective preys
sleuthing with their hunger
with their carnage grinding
along its wilted masquerading
I wandered with their howls
adrift in the unconscious lane
towards a poignant demise
In these hollow rifts
chandeliers tinker the shelves,
the cages and the dens -
The vulnerability caressed -
and every larceny,
and every mind's eye
surreptitiously slithered inside
the pulsating chamber
where ephemeral things
comes in and out
to corrupt the strings
the harpist dedicated
for her opus and its beauty
flagrantly before my eyes
Inside this abortive purgatory
I basked in the cheap glory
of flames igniting for
the cheap bliss instilled
in the false hope dangling
upon your succinct trespasses
and that is how I managed
to subsist in unreality
where our vagaries
grew fairy wings for
the lifeless earth's boundaries
where we I won't hide.
poem by Norman Santos
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Weak Beacons
The sunset of November leaned against
The propinquity of a hostile defense
And a yearning for all the suspended tears
Channeling from a cloyed and battered heart
Its alloyed blood rushed with a vexation
That molted daggers of vengeance
Unyielding to the farce world of stones
But in the illustrious night, the bones quivered
And rattled like the austere pebbles
Carrying our impeding lamentations
Somewhere, the red sun's beam engulfed
A drab bud uncurling its ancient wishes
Left unheard as the pollens shook away
Like dusts waning from the sun's graze
Whilst a flower withered to decadence
As its corolla expanded into a circle
Touching each other and coming closer
To the juxtaposition of life and death
A demise swayed like a pendulum
Refraining from the vulnerability
That was only stropped by the sibilance
Of this groveling paroxysm
The sun vying against its inertia
Gilded by a robust flame spat unto
The very leprous infection of the soul
And in these abundant transitions -
An asylum of metamorphosing cycle
I caught my own reflection in yours
Crying underneath the provoked wails
Scraping the veneer of a faithful heart
And wallowing a forward tongue
The hurtling of spear-like words
Gilded by the coruscations of what was
Stabbed like daggers on the back
Yet we feel the same, even hone the same wrath
Against all this oppressive games
And we are the same in different suits
Sleeping on different nights
Festooned by different vulturine cries
And penumbras of a lunar dime
I caught my bleared reflection -
Incarcerated inside a person I never knew
Gorging in the stale banquets of rues
Wearing shoes like a felled star
Running towards a lost future
Eyes riveted in a cold cellar
Of the dark pathos of the past
The gloaming spread its arms
And embraced the dying whims
As far as November can be
We sighed what we thought our final sighs
Like brothers in a call to incongruent arms -
Like weak beacons once aloft now toppled
And said good night to our dissimilar demise
I said good night to our different indifference
And embraced my sundered dusk
Coiling for an honest good night.
poem by Norman Santos
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To The Meandering Lion
Paws scorching the ground
leaving a rivulet of fire
a map for the meandering
Illustrious gilt of a skin
tawny as the sun's sheen
euphoniously sewn to the bones
And your proud head
bobbing with an arrogant crown
and roaring with a subtle clout
A steadfast monolith in the cracks
of the brittle bones and incendiary sand
I want to be who you are - meandering in blithe
poem by Norman Santos
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Cataloguing Nights
Inside an impassable night for a diffident boy;
Juxtaposed the pillar of his bed he coiled
From watching the final grain hastily dissipate
Fore infinity resurged his room, his subterfuge vacate
Vigorously, he confounds with a luxuriant tongue
Painting visions, unknowing his heart was wrung
For he was a boy withholding utopian eyes
Vulnerable from lies and metaphysically cries
With every plot his nights would conspire
He held onto profanity and blindly cross the wire
As prayers depart his sagacious lips
Departing to escape and stain like thieves
With lethargic eyes he would acquaint to rile
Inside a night of feigned lies and sedative denials.
Inside another eve for a reticent boy;
He perched on the hourglass, his soul was cloyed
As he lit a cigarette and taught himself to smoke
And hoped that the rings would seize the thoughts to choke
So the ethereal train would leave his downtrodden bed
But it marauded his wounded chest instead
With gasping breaths, he dragged a joint for help
Whilst the smoke abandon with an ounce of himself
The defiled body would rise like a swelling river
From the cold tiles; a mocking mirror
Of a boy with tales of hope and lamentations
And it would dawn on him that this is an initiation
Towards the endless nights of dreadful soliloquy
An immense struggle beneath the grasp of a rubber tree
Inside an epicurean night for a reclusive man;
Nibbling on a deadlock scheme, my, isn't it fun?
As he sunk himself beneath these ignoble sheets
And made a valley from a cigarette kiss
He sated himself with shabby fantasies and amities
From prattling pills of Mescaline and its severities
The endeavor banished all ghastly thoughts
But stirred sensations analogous to a garrote
Emotions riveted at the bosom of his soul
Swelling, bursting, decaying inside a hole
Inside that night, the rain poured harder
As he regressed in his bed of deep somber
"Nothing ever left, for nothing really came."
And he surmised; "I missed the kick-off of the game."
Inside a wan evening for a despondent soul;
He sulked into blasé still trying to cajole
For questions, for answers, for riddles of impasse
Induced with potions, sullied in the fray
The thoughts had left, the emotions depleted
Now he is benumbed as emptiness gyrated
An empty repose is not an auspicious replacement
He stifled, he stiffened, he sought for help
He cried and wailed and threw everything on his shelf
His drab eyes learned to utter a prayer again
His aching wounds, foreboding subsistence, colorized and darkened
But will anyone penetrate his endless nights of gloom?
And will anyone care to find a corpse in his room?
poem by Norman Santos
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Reflected Fire
The cold heart will take what warmth it can find.
I learned this today.
I saw your eyes when they turned to another.
That spark and fire... I knew that look.
So many times before, I basked in that warm glow.
So warmly familiar.
And me, so cold now.
The heart responds.
Just for a taste of the heat it knew once.
A reflected fire bouncing from you to her... to me,
serves to chill and warm this heart, all at the same time.
poem by Meli Secret
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One Cigarette
No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker's tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.
poem by Edwin Morgan
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Unforgiving Riddance
On the nights of stellar sharpness
Like the pixels of a lacquer photograph
I reckoned how you came to reality
Crossing the plethora of footsteps
And the myriad of engulfing seas
Your cold embrace of good riddance
Embraced by a lion's crown
Folded unto my chest and back
Like a broken ribcage splintered
From the steadfast monolith that you were
Your words surmounted the staves
Of the ladder you let down,
My guilt dangled like the last words
Catapulted at each other's citadel,
The redolence of yesterday flits
With all the far-fetched promises
I ask for all your poison again
So the faith you once injected
Will erode with everything
In its metronomic slumber
But we know that it's untrue
Like all the messages mislead,
Like all the times misconstrued,
Like all the trespasses abjured,
Like all the tethers unknotted,
Like all his unsolicited defenses -
On my end of the dagger
Hilt across your protection
I only hope for your strength,
I only hope for your convoluted visions
Scampering from the haunting shadows
That descended in a reluctant sunset
And the recuperation that was ahead
But we both know that it's untrue
For I only hope for yesterday
Bending backwards from the future
Even of the myriad of my today
The sun will soon set for you
With all the honesty that I wanted
And this riddance will be forgiven
In the cobwebbed chamber
I hold close to where you were.
poem by Norman Santos
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Dark Fire
Fire, dark and burning bright
Bright as day, yet, gives no light
In the shadows of the night
Take away immortal sight
Blind soul eyes with black twilight
Banish day and burn the night
Remove sin from Heavens sight
Fire, twist and taint the once pure light
Heaven fought against your might
In the end, He lost the fight
Pure souls surrender to the evil light
As shadows move to reign the night
Angel's wings flutter in fearful flight
In the shadow of your light
Fire, sweet and sin filled bane
Make the devil go insane
As you burn his skin with acid rain
His screams are songs wrought in pain
His wake of Hell’s dark fire wanes
Death and pain are what he gains
Shadows of the devil’s bane
Wash away his sin with His holy name
Fire of the dragon’s heart
Don’t let us tear the world apart
poem by Amanda Swain
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My Small Lady
My lady has died when she was a child,
Never has a hood been recovered, for she was a child.
The same dress she wore was red and blue,
Like the veins and arteries of her entrails.
Inside her studs a man of daggers and bones,
Bones are hers but both daggers lie hidden
And what are these promising weapons?
Are they thoughts, or wisdom eggs?
They are the daggers of blindness, foul things
Perish in the wilderness.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Making of a Prince II: A King with Too Many Names
Eyes of adamantine admiration,
Eyes of green jealousy,
And like my own of enigma;
Skin of robust splendor,
Skin of soigné plutocracy,
And like my own of harsh grating;
He had a extensive collection
Of these myriad visions
Brands and names,
Epitaphs and banners…
He had too much already
And I cannot endow him
Of a gift, of a name,
But in spite of the perplexity
Of his multitude, I knew him
And the core of his magnitude
A soul, a heart, a thousand words,
An assuaging fix, a destructive machinism,
Triumphs and defeat;
Overwhelming his names—
He was a king, he was a king.
He was a brittle glass of a king
Capable of holding many dishabille
Possessing ice and fire, fire and ice,
For candid tears and for affections
And as he meander in this shriveled globe
In the superfluity of his winding paths
The sun casts his diadem loftily
And the glass that his vessel was
Spewed a vexing prism in prance
Of its thousand shades and inflections
And the affliction was upon him
This king with many a name
Displays his scars too flagrantly
For it was more noble, as he believed,
Than his unutterable bank of grandiosity
And perhaps, in his vain rummaging
In myself: a mirror bijou of slivers
He saw himself, in a dour vantage,
His eviscerations, and faults, and errs -
A little coy prince wilted from a dream
Under the sun's duress, in the fear's chest
Juxtaposed the graves we built and exhumed:
We talked of riddles,
Gambled with death and life,
Shuffled reveries,
Wrote garish words
And slurring veracity,
Survived genocides
And treacle poisons—
In his clandestine dominion
Deeper than his clad loin
I had rubbed myself luster
And before I depart
I saw what he did:
A coy little prince
poem by Norman Santos
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Binding The Wind
You are breathing
It is cold
And your breath
Is seen in the wind
As white smoke
As you speak
I see your
Words in the air
And the wind
Carries them
All to me
In my nostrils
Then to my heart
I take my fingers
Touching your
Mouth feeling
Your lips
Molding some
Words of white smoke
To this cold day
I am cold
And weak
But I shall have
A way of making
My fingers coil
Into a rope
And I shall
Bind the wind
Where your words
Are contained
My fingers
Ropes of this
Meticulous mind
In this lovely chase
It is cold today
I am weak today
I bind the wind
Your words of
Love your warmth
In affection
And I bind them
All as I bundle
Them into a pillow
On my head
A pillow in my heart
On this cold day
I will not be weak.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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9 Miles On A Dirty Futon
I spent nine miles with her.
in a cheap apartment.
Boxed wine and cheeses with exotic sounding names.
Eaten on a blanket on the floor as we had no table.
we had no couch,
we had no television.
But we had music.
At night we would lay on a futon matress
that layed on the floor.
The streetlight outside the bedroom window playing shadows across sections of her.
First her eyes were lit, the rest of her awash in shadows,
then,
when she turned,
her mouth was visible,
but her eyes were shadowed.
A breast, a thigh, her hair all illuminated
then darkened
according to her movments.
Sometimes she would lie on her back and light a cigarette.
Her whole face would light with the flash of the lighter,
like hand held lightining,
then darken again.
We would talk for hours on that futon,
I don't remember what was said...
I remember her in pieces of light and shadow.
When she smoked the light would turn the smoke in to a slow
languid serpent
escaping from her body through her mouth and nose.
I have never seen anyone smoke like that before or since.
Her face half lit by the streetlight.
She would speak and the words would drift out of her
entwined with the smoke.
She smoked like Garbo.
slow and seductive.
9 years with her and all my memories are of shadows, soft sodium streetlights, and orange cigarette glow.
9 years with her and all I remember are the lights and shadows
across her body.
On that futon matress
on the floor.
poem by Brevet Wilson
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Love; a Mission to Submission
Sing ballads of tragic romance like a siren
And caress my name with a spell-binding levity
Quicken the rancor feel, ignite the noxious thrill
I shall clad myself with the best suit to enthuse you
Fastidious, luxuriant, deceitful spider web
Bleared to delude a trampled tatterdemalion soul
Inject an ounce of faith in my defunct city
Ensnare this boy to your incredulous sorcery
Can you manipulate to corrupt those three words?
And sedate me with a daft garden of daffodils?
Then I shall spew that I love you and I will love you
Acquiesce the blade in my morbidly whittled collar
Music shall perish, genuflect on a martyr
The angels are dead, the devils are here cowering
As I lynched myself with the strings of your promise
And you ignite the mad pyre below my calloused feet
For love shall be quizzical with your stern gestures
The lips of hope foretold: love is an invitation
Propel like hurricane with wings of vanity
And entice me to submit to your invitation
Loosen the girdle of my fragile convictions
I shall muse you like the moon on its bleared penumbra
With skin of snow, hair of fire, and loquacious eyes
Stained to cleave with a subliminal enigma
Lament the drought in my mouth with your faithful tongue
Ignite the frantic villages in my aching skin
Can you drag beauty into your oblivion?
And find soul gravitated between toppling pillars?
Then I shall plunge straight into your frowning chasms
And prance inside a storm to acquaint with treachery
The curtains shall fall to bury this carnal show
The audience shall roar bloating from the carnage and gore
As I drink down the shabby bliss I can educe
And you haul out my pitiful soul from my chapped lips
For love shall remain a virgin in your absence
The tongues of treason told: love is an evil theft.
poem by Norman Santos
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Hire And Fire
It was a night, it was just another night
She was sayin lots of nothing
She was none too bright
But youll listen much to anythin
When anythins in sight, wont ya!
Double back trouble like a temperance hall
Shes dealin with the ceilin
And the writings on the wall
Then youre wishing it was over, like an endless fall.
Its a lane side fight
Oh no! another main line ride
Oh no! there aint a train in sight
Oh no! settin my soul on fire
Try her and buy her
Hire and fire her
Playin the game his latest flame
Now its a fine line between passion and dread
Foolin and a droolin
Starts rulin your head
To seduction, destruction
Were so easily lead
And then the dawn, the so impatient telephone
The smell of disappointment
Mirror wants to pick a bone
Its a cup of cold coffee
Like the taste of stale beer
Lets get outta here
Its a lane side fight
Oh no! another main line ride
Oh no! there aint a train in sight
Oh no! settin my soul on fire
Try her and buy her
Hire and fire her
Carry the flame and make it last
Carry the blame and kiss your ass goodbye.
(written by rankin, mccafferty, agnew)
Bobnweave music (dunfermline)
Copyright 1992 nazareth (dunfermline) ltd.
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hire & Fire
It was a night, it was just another night
She was sayin lots of nothing
She was none too bright
But youll listen much to anythin
When anythins in sight, wont ya!
Double back trouble like a temperance hall
Shes dealin with the ceilin
And the writings on the wall
Then youre wishing it was over, like an endless fall.
Its a lane side fight
Oh no! another main line ride
Oh no! there aint a train in sight
Oh no! settin my soul on fire
Try her and buy her
Hire and fire her
Playin the game his latest flame
Now its a fine line between passion and dread
Foolin and a droolin
Starts rulin your head
To seduction, destruction
Were so easily lead
And then the dawn, the so impatient telephone
The smell of disappointment
Mirror wants to pick a bone
Its a cup of cold coffee
Like the taste of stale beer
Lets get outta here
Its a lane side fight
Oh no! another main line ride
Oh no! there aint a train in sight
Oh no! settin my soul on fire
Try her and buy her
Hire and fire her
Carry the flame and make it last
Carry the blame and kiss your ass goodbye.
(written by rankin, mccafferty, agnew)
Bobnweave music (dunfermline)
Copyright 1992 nazareth (dunfermline) ltd.
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Freefalling
Freefalling into the arms of gravity
the echoes in the cobwebbed vault
remained a fading noise whilst these
shards of affinities inveigled with a calamity
spinning deep in a helical seafloor
A sudden gush of ecstatic currents
rippled into the wrinkled body
and a red breeze swept the gray face
for a moment of hapless vulnerability -
humility in a fray against obduracy
the coiled rope of resistance
killed the noose in a taut pull
Without hitting the rock bottom
I ruminate in a sedating topple:
Have I been at any edges at all?
poem by Norman Santos
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The Jepoardy
My stride was taciturn
like the voice supressed
behind these clenched teeth
until I found your monument
gazing like an astute gargoyle
on a ponderous musing;
I washed my face with shame
and utter a cacophony
You stole my subterfuges
like how the night pilfers
the seething of my eenui;
I surrender everything
upon your austere relvance
most grandiloquently painted
on these perpetual gray mornings
But the road took slurs
and like a stammering promise
it was opressed by veracity;
the nefarious truth bludgeons us
to the end of our tethers
with its vise like vigor and filth
Now I wallow in this quagmire
trying to hide away from you,
trying to run away from me,
but I always trample to find you -
hands in akimbo, eyes down casted
upon my groveling pride and
my embarassed defenses
The taste of your soul is a poison -
a dungeon I carry amongst
the tangled convictions inside
this wearing skin and bones -
a babel of virulent destruction
that keeps me breathing and alive
in this sublime jeopardy
poem by Norman Santos
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Two Decades and Two Years Of Marc Ferdinand
A fizzy tongue
jutted out
and in the pall of darkness
came a light,
a smoke,
a veil of white
you dragged like a devil
with pure intentions
and savage kills
Cradling hands
coated in brass
spinning like a compass
pointing North
and lashing violently
when pirouetted
Your mouth
ballasts a cigarette
and spews smoke,
blows bubbles,
and electric words
behind the crooked teeth
is a caged multitude
You slouched
keen eyes unwavering,
steadfast like beacons
and in this sloppiness
the scars and burns
from wounds and bruises
are the only vestiges
that raised your roof beams
strong enough to share
a pallid, generous shade
Yonder the stench of licorice
or stains of nicotine
are sober constitutions
rivaling the weather
and time's conundrums -
A father,
A beau,
A comrade,
A wise man
outgrowing
the age of twenty-one.
poem by Norman Santos
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If These Scars Could Speak
Breathe
Come out of your stare
Touch the ground with your prayers
Breathe out the lies
Breathe
His words were sharpened hooks beneath your skin
You left them in
As he shone into the eyes around him
Cradled by a cold floor Isolation shows his true motivaiton
Her pedals are slowly torn away
Scarlet adorns the snow
Scarlet
song performed by by Zao from Liberate Te Ex Inferis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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