Daunted Compunction
The mordant emanation of efflorescence
Stings of vaporous mildew aroma and vim
Obfuscating the garrulous ripples of decadence
Abashed in the eloquent flow of the stream
Where we all bloomed from a profane abolition
Dispensing the pompous holiness of the verdure
Harrowed by scathing talons of an immolation
In the hefty crunches of trepidation's dentures
Constantly abjuring the serpents in the ladder
And girdling blaring chortles to fluently subdue
The woebegone ululation of the viscera's utter,
Superimposing a moored spine for incertitude's overdue
As the soul diverge from the meat, leaving a vestige
Of the disquietude citadel toppled and chagrined
By the gauche maneuver to unfurl the jagged ridge;
I veil myself surreptitiously in a pantheon: a perfidious fiend
Time flickered, soughing phantom prose and elegies
Expostulating in the verdigris' serrations for an espionage
To descry the libidinal impetus slathered in vile jaundice
Scraping the emollient sensation in an avalanche
And the weather passes leaving stains of rancor aberrations
Purging the donned grandiose of lazy reveling breaths
And usurping the vicissitude's myriad of collections
I will brood until loquacious compunctions come to death
The shadows will cast lofty upon the deluged floor
And in the lattices I shall seep out like a saber valiantly
Raised to sever the acrimonious malaise and succor
The astray finagling from deluding the deviant sentries
Emitting vexing coruscations and thwarting the solace
In this safe sanctuary sine of destitute desperation
As much as the aglow speculum of exoneration in chaste
Immersion and catharsis, perhaps this fear is my bastion
poem by Norman Santos
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I Empire State of Mind
In the surging rustles of the void vesper
Gallantly burning a svelte bridge to dawn away
From the briskly chortles of the blight
Coruscation of these stellar's blithe
Slumbering cellars toppled to unfurl
The virulent fangs caressing the tongue
And gnawing at the grin sliced upon;
Ballasting on an eternal trepidation— a hapless vie
In the protracted skyline gallops
A treachery more surreptitious than
The grip of the city walls in your eyes
And the lofty sears of rooftops reveals
Its buried pillars saliently looming
And swaying with the silent quakes
Of the flickering wisps of lights
Above the shrouded sky and reticent sighs
That casts a casket and extemporizes a requiem
For the lattices of the shadows where the chortles
Are sifted and filtered from the devoid exuberance
And in the abstracted transition of the montage
A golden eye steadfast unabashed
Feigning an I empire state of mind
The city melting down his throat,
Seeping out his lungs and plummeting
With the cinders and ash ousted
By the dark arch on his aching lips
And in his lack of sleep is the truant
Empire escalating and inflating as
The heaving breaths does.
poem by Norman Santos
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Revive The Vicissitude
This perfect night
I clenched my jaws
From the cinch defeat
Until eternity extended
To the opalescent curtains
Of my room echoing
The blaring sound of silence
And the muffled weeps
Of desolation
That crept up with the dawn
Late, at my four AM gazing;
Siphoned out of verve
Drawn from cigarette sticks,
Disembogue the rancid kick
As I accept the coup-de-grace
Of death in living death
But a tepid air deluged
My dribbling punctured chest
Humming a lullaby
To bring back the rhythm
Of all my hapless pleading
Please, please, please
Let me, let me, let me
Get what I want
This time,
Finagling the winning tyrant
To open the bleeding bolted fist
And the abeyance of life
Deflated with sleep
Thank you, munificent lady
Of the nomadic caravansary,
For reeling the rotting viscera
Of the evocatively forgotten vicissitude.
poem by Norman Santos
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Wallflower
A cigarette in the room
a veil of smoke
dislimning a short smile
for the red stars
and blue bulbs
The wallpaper caught
the shadows suspended
in the lattices of time
and made a room
for everyone
Before the wallflower
bloomed and divulged
its redolent presence
there was an oscillating hand
who grazed its petals
and bled on its thorns
But when it had gone
to dissolve with myriad shapes
and shadows of the past
the flower withered
like a bottomless hourglass
The fragrance won't come off
even in evisceration,
even in abolition,
writhing brown and crisp
like a heart disembogued
vying for its old blood
But no one pried
underneath a wallflower
so he waited for the old hands
who held him once
poem by Norman Santos
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Jaundice
I found you there, clad fully
In a tawny velvet in the visage
Of the sun seekers espionage
Cringing in the svelte beams
Seething through the yawning
Of the assuaging curtains and
The vestiges of your quintessence
Meander with the vacuous
And suspended breathing,
Fringing the cholera slathering
The solitary holidays
In this robust abode, a turret,
The sooty pockmarks
In the pallid tangerine bricks
Condensed the slumbering veneer
Like a hefty ripple in a cesspool
Garish rays swooned marauding
With prismatic buoying mirth
Rather rudimentary and hollow
Impenetrably shallow
Cleaving vexation eagerly
And the vivid coruscations
Casted shadows aloft that bore
Unfathomable ulcer in the flaws
As the gilded chiming bawls
Rouse and float innocuously
My baleful iron eyes toppled
From the adverse gaiety
Perhaps, I belong amongst the gloom
And the shadow is my mooring home:
A bijou for a wavering wander
Through my frangible walls
Vicissitude galloped in berserk
Digressing and regressing
Without the huff and puff
Of a culpable wolf
On the jaundice creeping
The bewildering mirror
poem by Norman Santos
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A Perfect Day To Sail
Autumn hovered above the maladroit clouds
To descry our sanctum and astray meanders
And She shuddered, sprinkling a daze of gold
And sifted the ashes and bones of our deaths
In the sieves of Her trident are the remnants
Where my soul remained haplessly enthralled
And we watched it wan and die in a murder:
An auspicious castration of the gray curtains
In your resilient grin it flaunts a descant of scenes-
A bipolar thrill cleaves in me, a timorous ecstasy:
Eccentric and riveting, undulating and banefully riving.
The ghastly gossamer blooms saliently in the mire
Like a trickle of blood blossoming in the silver lake,
The ruse of vicissitude obfuscates a brand new shade
And the excoriation tautly smothers my inside
Drowning the myriad collections of pilfered sighs
But your picture was a pristine escalation, a stupor
Of purged exoneration, I loosen my heaving breath
Unlatched my tacit eyes to resign my contending
And permit the enigmatic lagoon tinker my incertitude
For it mirrors your mirth, and there sank my ululations
"The veneer of the lake, the psalms of the mimic sierras,
The soughing of the albino birches, the chanting of cicadas,
The touting of the gilded rays, the disgorging of the panorama,
The diadem of the sky; like an aubade of fata morgana"
You uttered them in a foreign voice that flabbergasts my storms
I cringed, lost in insecurity, musing on the ail of your panacea
And the whirlwind inside sculls heavier but the lake was mute
And resilient as you are, perhaps, I needed an ounce of fortitude-
A sliver of hope, a shard of faith: a chance to experience verve
In a sly jauntiness you seared like a blithe phalanx
And I vied for involution to reap my own wings
But I can only connive with the shoved ghosts
And commiserate with the aborted sorrows,
A desolate man juxtaposed a vindicated soul
In front of a fastidious lake that mirrors my demands,
I flinched but I cannot reveal, I broke but I cannot bleed
I interposed my share of inconsistency but I cannot feel
A desolate man—a warden, a prison; a perplex abolition
Is all that I can sap from the plenitude of sedations
"It is a good day for a stride, let's haul the boat"
You inveigled with the season's gaudy feint
"Of course, let's hurtle down the sleeping lake"
I superimposed an unrivaled acquiescence
But the fears marauding like tempest thunders
Sundered the soul from the quintessence of words
And there you are in your abundant bliss
Ferried in a chaise of victory, eagerly departing
To greener grounds, I assume without doubts
While I remained moored into my crackled grounds
Capitulated by the chicanery of severe turpitude
"Ho! The wind is good—warm and cold! "
You hollered as you run and swell like the lake
I broke another grin for the oxymoronic slate
And the fogs devoured your fine silhouette
As winter perched in my shoulders, frost biting
My finagling yearns and thwarting my fleet
Riveted with a peremptory despondence for escape
I can only aggrandize the inadequate profanity
"This is my moiré skin, see the scars running?
These are my maps, the vales in the cicatrix;
This what I cannot depart, in all my spite,
This is where I have become—my ocean, my lake,
My only birth land and my sole grave"
I quivered my lips in your bleared visage
And from the veil a bray pierced like lightning
"It's a perfect day to sail! " There was quietude
"It's a perfect day to sail! " Your new etude.
The sun smoldered His wrath arduously
And the dews slewed from the genteel leaves
Whilst I, unmoved in my inert imposed grace,
Sailed the perfect day to sail away.
poem by Norman Santos
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They March Towards the Sun
Fall with the drizzle and watch
The myriad of sunsets
Like the ubiquitous mist, and
Wade through the mud
To create the ripples that
Would whisk the stark portrait
Of the striding demise
One by one, footsteps fell
Like raindrops on the eaves
With the same alacrity
And magnitude, and mass,
Outnumbering the silence
Of my sojourning breath
And the gushing rivers
Pummeling the latticed walls
Of my abashed lashes
From my gaze they thawed
Into bodies, into silhouettes,
Into shadows treading
The paths towards the sun
These soldiers armed for wars
Heads held like wards,
Arms folded like barricades,
Eyes like sentries watching,
And souls like battlefields
Before the war, silent but
Brazenly shunning disaster
They held their married guns
Close to the fathom's of the viscera
Like a crying child, some
Like a dead wife, and
Loaded them with bullets
Fear clouted and nil dodged
For the patios never quaver
Safe within their turrets
The sanguinary epistles
Invoked by anticipation
Dissipates with their cloaks
As they knocked through the gloaming
And rummage for virgin grounds
Safeguarded by an intangible
And invisible strength and valor
Whilst I careen closer,
Like curious spectator
Blinding the storm's eye and
Becoming the scull and temper
Of this modest typhoon;
Emotions on a violent vertigo
Behind the marching thirty seconds
Towards the small sun
Feigning my own bastion.
poem by Norman Santos
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Vicissitude IV: Autumn
Undraped from the silver jewelries
And donned with jaded gold
Gravity sat on his eiderdown
Girdling everything in his core
Usurping the land and filleting it
Until it is naked and splinted
From the cumbersome aftermaths
And I, too, unfurl a gilded soul
Married to a wraith of constant brawl
On and on, the creed falls
Shrouded from a multitude of brevity
I wither and fall in acquiescence
With the halcyon cacophony
Laboring honesty, eagerly and haplessly
Only to find it crisp and frangible
Crumbling to pieces only to fall
In autumn's omniscient spell
I watched the brown river flow
And the drifting current to take me
So the topple endures the invigoration
That I held for a sangfroid resistance
Gnawing teeth and kneading hands
In a tête-à-tête with malignance
I cajoled and begged for a consummate defeat
Under this wrecked vicissitude's feet
One last fall, one last shattered hope
One final string of a gilded rope
poem by Norman Santos
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Women
The night was gravid with many secrets
And as the fecundated moon probed
Through the lattices of the branches
The giddy wind shook her lovely boughs
And the sinful fruits fell into the ground
Rapidly blossoming to become the garden
Of a woman's clandestine volitions
And women, I spoke of you:
Like a fell star, a woman can make you wish
Or make you hope and believe in promises
Without constitutions, with empty bliss
A woman will glamor and capture you
With her eloquent and elusive wisps
Like a defenseless bird, she would beat her wings
To scull her own wind and you will plead
To be her zephyr and in her slavery
You shall be ferried to a new firmament
Lamented by her flightless incarceration
Like the enigma of flowers, she exhibits her petals
Like bloomed parasols and her wandering pollens
Will smear your face with the taste of nectar
And saccharine pleasures eluding the sight
Of her perfidiously brambly thorns
The willowy night gave birth to women
In her wintery boudoir and multitude of palettes
And nurtured her antipathy and succinct savor
By giving men a sense of responsibility
To warden a woman's querulous misery
And in the vesper's open palms
We perched like contingent butterflies
So women, I speak to you:
Like a fell star, unfurl your scintillated feet
That made you traverse the misconstrued circles
Where I espied your graceful oscillation
Masquerading your inebriated staggering
Falling like a cold tear in an empty sky
Like a flightless peacock, boast with your plumes
And sing your fluently woven songs
But in the night, smear the rouge in abolition
And let me cater to your attrition,
Weave your nest and be your protection
Like the flowers of vicissitude, inveigle the astray
With your redolent entity and corolla of petals
Like a tiara or a filigree, and wither not
When the rain tarnished for the sunny skies
Reveal your thorns so I can succumb to your enigma.
poem by Norman Santos
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Of Reckoning
A somnolent velvet mustered and galloped
With the maladroit circling of the parliament
Of vultures and crows over slumbering carrion—
Meat suits disembogued of the singeing blood
And I am one among the riveted motions
Shearing the skies with profane pulsations
Lingering in the temples of the unholiest gods
Here, I am a colorless myriad of liaisons:
A sedentary life, a breathless death,
Lurking back into the svelte gutters
Of irrevocable stains of melancholia.
The redolence creaking with the floorboards
That used to be scraping warmth and life
Beneath the pheromones and morning breaths,
The humdrum noise in the alleys of turbulence
With people for walls, and hearts for rings
That binds ladders for all the falling,
The last tick of the crooning clockwork
Careening for gilded memories and staring
At his last wave for regrets and chances
Of a thousand more defeat; a thousand more
Photographs of the drizzles in your pane.
poem by Norman Santos
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You Know Not
Do you know what I pawned for
To tolerate and swallow these swords?
Do you know how many pieces
Sprawled bleeding on the floor?
Do you know how many places
I hid myself, my anguish and misery,
Only for you to find, pilfer and stain?
Do you know how lofty you are
And the shadows that you cast
That shred all the other lights?
Do you know the brambly lashes
That my soul reaps when
You assume and tell me
That I seem to be fine
And break a sardonic wry?
Because I know the verity
That it is you in that state
Of a myriad of reasons to be sate.
Do you know that despite this
I still wanted to keep you
For you had deluded me with hope?
Do you know that keeping you
Is all I'm trying to do,
And dispensing my endeavors
Is all you ever have to give?
Do you know what we are?
I'm a hyena mocking a lion,
You're a titan, gold and infamous,
Our camaraderie dangles blithely
On the macabre of apocalypse,
A part of it finagles with
The far-flung antebellum.
Do you know at all?
poem by Norman Santos
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Vendetta
While the chagrined wine
rummaged like a felled rose -
electric shivers in the spine
willowing the pretty mouth
and the abolition of eyes
the tethers that we rival
only strops the exoneration
into exacerbating this
premature demise
Waltz into the dark curtain
like a soundless hunter
Hold your vehemence
in a gnarl I'd never grasp
and into my diamond penetralium
send the lamentations
like ghastly susurrations
from masquerading
varmints of my sanctum;
Like a connoisseur contender
be the vendetta
of my trespasses
Into my insulated night
come, like an ominous chill
from the sniffing hounds
and do not pity
or scorn at my cradle
as empty as
a womanless bed
Stifle under your breath
to descry the black veins
running like a torrent horse
away from the fray -
A tide to wash away
the derided sanity
with a hathful of squalor
and caustic brine
These waterlogged eyes
unheeding its abrasions
silent like a grave
for all the exhorted alibis
but if you can crane closer
enough to catch my perishing
and wuthering pillars
shall you weep not
for the burnt shutters
of my vacant windows
for when your breath
catches the sibilant embers
the flyleaf would turn
itching and desperate
for another tragedy
Unless you come
for the perfect vengeance
against all the lattices
that sundered our incendiary,
for when you hold me close
into the spikes of finitude
I would gorge in quantum chances
and topple back unto
your generous brawls
poem by Norman Santos
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Shadow Dance
The shadows danced with the hazy smoke
Draped in the malodorous tobacco scent
Rippling the pallid beckon of the summer noon
The shadows danced and lightly rouse
Insurmountable motions of the colossus sea
And lingered with the auspicious truancy
The shadows danced with the svelte strokes
In the maladroit light-flushed and fueled-gush
Whining seep of a violent breath of life
The shadows danced with phantom swords
Scintillating sparks to flicker within the darkness
Slumbering in the corners of somnolent eyes
The shadows danced in the reveling noise
Where the sun never quells the thirsty rose
And never pours for the barren host
The shadows danced and tilted inertia
To greedily gather the myriad of porcelain jars
Brimming with dusts and scripts and stars
The shadows danced and I was enthused
To sway the steely legs gnarled in the silence
Of calculating the shadows rhythmic palpitations
poem by Norman Santos
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Crystal Castle
In a moribund day reigned by an empathetic sun
Serendipity lingered amongst ghosts withholding scant
Fluid hands pale as the toppling films of the sun's corona
Flimsy hands shackled in a culvert; a deceitful supernova
Fate sew its golden threads in an erratic lambaste fashion
Treason shrieks in an arachnid's ensnare, an alluring bastion
All the same, like double-edged sabers, a compromised sedation
A subtle rapine of the gray valley and the caterwauling connotations
Such peremptory heart evoking extinct and perfidious sensations
Gnawing on velvet bones, gnashing a forlorn redemption
Sheathed a myth riveted at the breast with stern fluency
An allegory scorching like a thick beard of scathing ivy
Reeking profoundly with virulent sedition
A soul's infinite death at the estoque of perdition
A barricade of refuge loomed corrupting the innocence
The myth forebode oblivion; vicissitude's riddance
Glacial crystals, emerging in gracious acquiescence
Pristine imposing castle, fragile majesty in luminescence
Diaphanous blood, a citadel fabricated to unveil
How much your eyes crumble with unspoken pains.
poem by Norman Santos
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Trickle, Stutter, Pluck
Trickle my waxen moon
A vertical line stood
Underneath a starbeam
A trail of perfidious gilt
An obdurate lynch
Inveigling in its silence
And intimidating
My hapless stance
I teeter in the ensnare
Of a spider's web
Cloyed by superfluous
Legs and eyes
And abundant demands
Impale and crucify
Me before I oust
Myself in this
Labyrinthine vexation
Stutter as you oscillate
As I sift the serrations
Of a starless night
And a placid tension
Basking in a lagoon
I yearn for your reflection
Without the verdigris
Of the arachnid venom
I am the penumbra
Of these doom
Pluck me out this room
Trickle, stutter, pluck
I'd rather fillet
This starless night
Than to sew my skin
Into this tapestry
Of moths and
Ignorant malaise.
poem by Norman Santos
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To Those Dames with Crimson Eyes
I can reckon with the lucidity
Of the tranquil motions of the floor
Those farfetched nights sent to
The scrapings of the harried memory
Your skins, glistening from the blur,
Staggering through a solid corner
Like the stars settled in the firmament
Concealing its desire to fall
Betrothed to the potions of alcohol;
Your eyes, all six of them,
Crossed mine from the jovial turbulence
And I thought, from behind my telescope,
That a soul met another soul;
I permitted my lips to droop with my eyes
Macadamized with iron slyness
Averting the crimson redolence
That beckons a skirmish of the heart
A blitzkrieg of blind shots,
From blatant courteous unwritten words
To long small jeremiad of the silence
Buried in the sighs and diffidence,
To hot grazes boiling the blood vessels
Then the soul intertwined once more
In the crimson gases of the turfs
When you caressed my hair
And have my soul surrender
Exploiting its secrets and laments
Spoken in inebriated language
Of undulating bodies and ruffling sheets,
Jabbing open wounds and scraping skins
That faded in a silent scream.
And now, I aimlessly wonder
What those crimson eyes envisaged
Ignited by toxic lemonades
And serrations of aberrations
To provoke a lackluster man
To pour out the enzymes
Of the insentient soul
Sulking in the jagged corner
With feigned exuberance
And smiles castrated by
Cigarette kisses, hissing with
And enigmatic silence.
I wonder about your names
But I might have sent them
Far in the fathoms of Alaskan graves
Or maybe I forgot to ask them
For the soul was a gypsy
Meandering aimlessly with legs
Slathered by sedative bliss
Pawned for all famished nights
Of wailing bleak howls
But I failed to keep them
For the chemicals in your bloods
Was effortlessly devoured
By hedonistic blarneys
Yet, in these times of abandon
I wonder about you
Longing for answers,
Wanting requisitions;
What does this ugly vessel posses
To be invited in your boudoir
And swallow the phantom swords
With a wry of a smile
Crossing the darkness
As the scant strokes of my silhouette
Leave the fine svelte fringe
With no intention of returning?
My apologies for this comedy,
But it was a good drag
Not in the flesh,
The thighs,
Or the crotch,
But in the wisps
Of the unwanted soul;
The very quintessence
Of being accepted.
poem by Norman Santos
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Yellow Haven
I remember the forfeited nights when hunger
Had sent me mangling into fortified walls
Groveling to thaw into the pallid inflection,
Squirming from the scraping inside the chambers
That putrefies the veneer to haplessly reveal
The unwritten words in the wrinkled skin,
Where the poisons crumpled to potions
Picking slivered beads and making a chalcedony
Of pebbles to grind in our running feet;
Turning serpentine vespers into the cinders
Of the day's vigorous fanning of ambiguity;
And ephemeral drizzles engulfed by the wave
Of esoteric perpetuity in a colossus rave;
In spite of the incisive transatlantic distance
Imposed by tacit seclusion and disparity
I found the light show on the ocean floor
Where gods are servile of the fathoms
Placing their languid heads in stone tables
For an immolation to omniscient mortality.
In a cup of golden concord that entangles
Our meta-fictional lives in a conscious strangle:
A highfaluting chaise, for arriving and departing
Impassable planes of plutocracy
To premature decadence that lingers
Into the absence of your sculling chortles
And vivacious silence riveted in the listening floor
As I touch you and feel the seraphs wafting
In your skin and melting crystal castles
And as I part, shoved by the demons
With awry prongs locking in a tale
That not one without a sip of the sharp
Spangling revelries in our fragile cup
Could neither evade nor leave triumphant.
I am one amongst the motions and susurrations,
Stringed in the latticing chances of conclusions,
Assuaging the winds of odyssey, never to bury
The skeletons when time flew like an albatross
Enslaving the sea and nary a home but the sky
Teeming with the liberal sensations to descry
The asphyxiated lungs of lost voices,
And collapsing ribs of lost viscera,
Intertwines the demon's lair into
The ornate heaven for the mortals.
As soon as we touch and spew verve
We lose contact and the valley of death
Yawns wearily to devour the mechanism
Learned in a plenitude of scant days:
A close good bye juggles with hello
Oblivious with all these lovely people.
poem by Norman Santos
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Blaring Lamentations
Asunder from the assuaging calls—
The chortles in the brawls,
The throttles in the vacant holes,
The spasm in the sinewy sinusoid
That clambers with the trails
Of an astray galloping asteroid;
The sirens will denounce the tinnitus
To coil in the wavering fathoms,
The banshees will squander a soul
To define haughty distraught
The montage migraine wrought,
Follow me, into the light
And cast a shadow into the blight
With certitude riveted inside
Digress to grow seraphic strides
And blind the blaring laments
With omniscient chivalry whilst tottering
In the veneer of debacle and saturnalia
And you will cleave with rue to ensue
The garish pouncing of threads
In trelisses and porches of
Ghastly towns and in the crevasses
Come naked in the facade
Of devouring fleet from defeat
This is how we live, or submit into
Believing the shallow fringes of life
Eaten by fear, eating fear, basking and
Vying to subsist within the parameter
Only inches farther the saturnine pits
And this is how we are defined
The coarse grating of eloquent lines
Mouths guzzled in a suture fatal as
The debauched hearing for misery.
poem by Norman Santos
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Bestiary
The bestiary ruminates
with feline stalking
and vulpine calculations
and in the gallows
of this machine's lasso
I seek for garrison
Like a den
for the famished ponderings
and slavering propositions
Like a cage,
for the leonine trepidation
and the myriad of souls
adrift in unconsciousness
These words surfacing
the abysmal void of the paper -
footmarks of an transient paw
riveted in a stupor
under the salient verdigris
of the softest putrefaction
The perfidious sibilance
slithers in the crevasses
and the vulturine ululations
trampled inside the chamber
The bestiary is inside
the heart of this machination
like a den, like a cage
protecting the frangibility
from its own brittle bones
poem by Norman Santos
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The Immolation
The rotund sun slyly coveted
His diadem of light and warmth
Yonder the gnawing jagged teeth
Of these greedy mountain passes
And the days stretched without
The fire ball hung above the clouds
Of ignorance, innocence, malignance
So I squandered my gambling and
Gave up haggling with the King
I knelt before the oblivious sky
Scraping my bloodless knees
In the hoarse and mordant skin
Of the thinning ice beneath
Pleading for my immolation
So I can transcend in liberation
To the land of the phantoms
The oppression to be caught
In a reedy ensnare of vagary
Underneath jealousy and abhorrence
A labyrinth of flustered identity
Is a death far more excruciating
From the carnal conflagration
It is a shackle of lightning impaling
And lashing to the frozen core
A death that will live on, bleed on
In the echoes of this immolation
"Who am I to you, lovely people?
I cannot see myself in those big
And once sincere doe-eyes.
I was yours, not just an accessory
Of what you can encompass
From each other's covenant.
But the tides washed away
My footprints on your shores
Because you walked on them
For they were your chalcedony,
And your tides, and your ebbs,
Your sea, your coveted jealousy.
Your waters heaved me too close
Then shoved me too far away
With your clashing demands
And a whirlpool of obfuscation.
It took its toll in my harried eyes
Because I am not a saint nor a god
I am just a comrade, and a misbegotten
Catalyst of a storm that shall fan
And hone your arduous appetite
For each other's somber ties.
Who am I to you ululates a cry
Submerged beneath the zealous
And ardent hunger you have,
Such subliminal lust to become
The mighty flame of the sun—
Between the two of you:
The brawl is to undo
What you have become
From dragging me too.
Good riddance, to you
My riddled affinities.
So long, and may you find
Your separate peaces."
I chide to the bony clouds to falter
And thaw into a bottomless river
And I shall walk the void bottom
Of this bottomless ocean vapidly,
I plead for the vestiges of the night
To mantle a pall on my shoulders
And I shall carry her into the impasse
And there I shall limbo with the dead
And wistfully peel off the mordant skin
Of your haunting memories: doe eyes
And porcelain skins, lips quavering
Of malaises, pains, and of the dead
Incisiveness of trust and honesty
Of far-flung amities, now they seal
Themselves with stitches to latch
The demons of loathing and treachery
And the blood lust for this immolation.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pleas of a Claymore I
In my sedentary ineptitude,
I shall acquaint you with
The uncouth wails of a claymore
With the hissing sounds in the air
Of its unabashed bashings
Slicing through the verdigris of reticence
Swallowed, like serrated daggers
And the throat that bled the anarchy
That had always coiled in the underground
Grottos of a stagnant river.
I shall ring the sleeping bells,
With the shrills and clatters
Spewing the turbulent climates
Of a claymore in a warfare
That he vied for, like his own
And of a greater mayhem
When is he is not desirable
Pleasant and wanted,
And remained sheathed
Effacing incorrigible thousand winks
In the mausoleum of his scabbard
That pierced through the veneer
Of impassable platinum.
Have you ever seen a saber?
Obstinately lacerating its throat
In emitting the anguish
Into the moon as he raised
Its head to wedge the enemy;
A phantasmagoria of an adversary
In an amorphous shape
For he is an abused vessel
Of a blind tormented soul
In the emollient hands
That he had vied for
Like his very own.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a scabbard
Than a sword.
And when the vigor is acquiesced
Cleaving into a carnage
With a remonstrative odium
He would bow his estoque
Into the sanguinary of the soil
Reeking with sepulchral remorse
Only to pray for the clenched fist
That had mended him
And forget about his own
Fluttering pains
And peccadilloes.
Sometimes, the claymore
Is more of a rosary
Than a sword.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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