En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Fostering The Desperation

A plenitude of ten days can cradle the impasse
And the drudgery of the smothering blasé
For in the times where the jocund days revel
Without sparing a single seat despite your grovels,
Not even the delusive carousing inside your head
Can bend the bleak defeat heaving a lynching thread,
You are bound to incarcerate the pangs of jealousy
And subsist in a burrow on the crust of mendacity

A surfeit of abeyance is a bed of black tulips
Where death silently coils entangling in diminutive wisps
How long can you endure breathing the stygian gale?
How long can you keep your vessel from shattering in stale
Fragments of desperation? And swallow the swords that halt
Your shrouding verve or demise; your congealed surreptitious art
Of feigned exuberance and complacent retorts
To the vehement proposal of trepidation's mellifluous courts

Another futile endeavor to foster the desperation in a poetry
Is but another escalation of the devastated treaty
Flustered by the weakened barricades
I can see a snake hissing for a charade
On my heels, swiveling my pace in distraught
And corrupting the plaque from the wars I had fought
I can smite the devil, but what good will it be?
Can it fend the lacquer fangs of this atrocious veracity?

poem by Norman Santos
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Escalator

It was one of those bountiful days
Where a minuscule latency of silence
Could mean the void of everything;
The toppling of the fortress' pillars,
The infringement of the rosary beads,
The rapine of the cheapest hope
That you had found in someone else's pocket,
The kiss of a dying cigarette bud,
Or the burning end of the cigarette bud,
The last page of a novel and its woebegone demise,
Or the solitariness amidst the buckling jovial nights

It was one of those plundering days,
When I can see the violent waves
Palming the swaying bay, seizing the dock
Beating endlessly the benumbed shores
And I see it amongst the swarming populace,
In the slow hands of the hasty clock,
In the precarious streets and highways,
Even in the lull of classroom deliberations,
And my throat smothers with a torrid
Sensation from the cleaving caveat;
The arrival of the night of thieves
In superfluous arms clambering
From the insipidness of the air
Coiled in a snake's repose, geared up to strike
And pilfer the lustful shards of infinity
In my translucent veins and replace it
With the stale venom of impasse

And it was one of those rueful days,
Where I would crawl with the shuddering
And I slam the drift to be drawn to the corner
Of a sublime (and feigned) escalation
Where the seraphs unfold their wings
And the cherubs stifled blathering
And repress the things jabbing my ribs
By pressing all the buttons of the escalator
And delaying the setting of the moon,
And the pluvial toll of the scorching rain,
And defeat the rancid alcohol limit
For I am a bulimic drinker!
Quaffing the virulent pool of ecstasy!

And it was one of those days,
Where the vying would have to pinch respite
For the nights could no longer expand
And the chorus of the carousels sojourn
When the feigned lacquer smile bends
Then I shall halt my breathing and swallow
The serrated fragments of the glassine escalator
When it had hit the ceiling and the stringent string ruptures
Free falling in the unfathomable abyss
Of the escalator sequestered from escalation.

poem by Norman Santos
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Funeral for a Friend

The corona of the sun rolled
Into the steep ridges of the cliffs
Where the swaying of svelte legs
Still cast the black pendulums
Out-shadowing the anthem of the day
And as it flushed the slithering roads
Without a hiss, raising the skeptic head
Like the serpent that it was
Still, I traversed the valley valiantly
Shunning the venoms and fangs
Straight into the point blank demise
Of ephemeral times

I shall don my best guise
As I trample in my meander
And swallow the slivers
Of sequestered amenities
And I shall mount the granite legs
With the impetus of veracity
Detaching from the rail tracks
Lingering to nostalgic melancholia
I will reckon a phantom
Holding a lamp, flooding the darkness
And I will tether myself
In this unfettered expedition

The shadows behind the frosted tombs
Would dither to remember
The quicksand waltz of fingers
That caressed the ruptured chambers
With unbigoted honesty
Now, gone, pilfered.
And the promises may be veritable,
But evanescence is certifiable, incorrigible
Congealed in the distanced veneer
Of the verisimilitude of impassable
Tail lights of the finite

My unfettered bliss, my vows,
We may be a one trick dog
For the serpentine alleys
But I shall engulf the devouring
And linger in the darkness
Of the snake's burrow
Celebrating your fangled funeral
While the other snake boulevards
Deuce the dice, climb the ladders,
Shed their skin and ingest it.
A crown of hibiscus, a candle,
A cold shattered pumping.

People are people,
Those days were days,
A funeral for a death
To stray in the impasse,
And a comrade is always.
Always.

poem by Norman Santos
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Toxic Treacle

The verisimilitude of grandiose
Sprawled in a perfidious repose
On the bassinet of filth
Of infinite clockwork:
A fairytale or drudgery,
And the ephemeral mirth:
Sufficient enough to be grandiosity
Parallel to my atrocious veracity
I need the treacle poison.

I want to touch your face
As everyone else does
But frost bites in your iron mask
Can I graze the quelled sun
Beneath the facile veneer?
Because as much as I despise you
I want your lethal treacle
To meander in my plagued throat
I need the treacle poison.

Because I am so alone
That I hate people for carousing
Whilst I squander in a soliloquy
With my own loneliness
Now abandoning me
As the dawn rouses at four A.M.
And jealousy notched in
In my solitary confinement
I need the treacle poison

I wanted to cradle a poetry
But I never had the facility
I have never been anywhere,
I have never been anyone;
Please, cut the cord of this soliloquy
Because I can be very cold
To my bleak incertitude
Yes, I do abandon myself
For I need the treacle poison.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Devil With The Black Dress On

Wash off those scabs dear
or fingernail pick them clean
Pray to all your long lost demons
and justify your means

Devil has a new shape
Devil has a new ride
Devil has a problem but he locks it up inside
Shit angel

Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to own me angel
cause I own you now you're gone

Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to hate me angel
cause I hate you now you're gone

Did you believe it cause I said so
Did you believe it was true
Did you believe it cause I said so angel
I sure lied to you

Did you believe it cause I said so
Did you believe it was true
I'm eternal and infernal and I sure lied to you
Shit angel

Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to own me angel
cause I own you now you're gone

Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to hate me angel
cause I hate you now you're gone

Good girl with the black eyes
Believe in future past
Everything that I want happens
See how long that lasts

Devil has a hot rod
Devil high on speed
Devil has a black dress
So her arms can bleed

Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to know me angel
cause I know you now you're gone

Kids sure like the devil these days
and I'm the devil with the black dress on
Do you want to hurt me angel
cause I'm hurting now you're gone

Go go go gone
Go go go gone
Go go go go go go go
Gone

song performed by by Jack Off Jill from Sexless Demons And Scars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In Dreams

Everytime I speak
Wipe away all these tears
Living every day in fear
Finding nothing but empty
[chorus]
Wide awake and dreaming
Os this what it seems?
Close my eyes forever
I'll wake up
Desperation strips me
These last days have not been free
Stealing every breath from me
Whispering defeat
And I see it in your eyes
Long gone
And i feel it in your heart
Long gone
And I see it in your eyes
Long gone, long gone

song performed by by Kittie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Of These Days

One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
And Im gonna try
And thank them all for the good times together.
Though so apart weve grown.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
And Im gonna thank,
That old country fiddler
And all those rough boys
Who play that rock n roll
I never tried to burn any bridges
Though I know I let some good things go.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
From down in l.a.
All the way to nashville,
From new york city
To my canadian prairie home
My friends are scattered
Like leaves from an old maple.
Some are weak, some are strong.
One of these days,
Im gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends Ive known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it wont be long, it wont be long.

song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Desperation Is A Lonely Poem

DESPERATION IS A LONELY POEM

Desperation is a lonely poem
And what I have to say
And have said so many times before
Will not save me
From this situation.

Desperation is a lonely poem
And a helpless poem
And a difficult poem
And a painful poem
And a poem I do not know how to get out of.

Desperation is the silence of all these words
And the nothingness of endless not hearing
When I cry with all my soul aloud.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Death of a Misanthropist

The least poignant funeral
Is the death of a misanthropist
For a misanthropist had already
Died a lot of little deaths
And the world had already
Played a thousand exequies
In the chortles of their hilarity
That had molted abhorrence,
But then again, there's a death
That can obliterate a misanthrope
And it is the most pleasurable death
For it is the birth of a different life
Effacing the veneer of misanthropy

Now there is a flamboyant fire
Incinerating inside my belly
That bores an affluent hunger
For more life, more hope,
And I never wanted more breaths
To engulf all rues from deaths
That my sooty eyes grew darker
With the oil of potent verve
Realizing that perhaps, one good road
Is suffice and enough
If I can learn to bend
To fork a thousand rides.

It took the most lethal pit
And the most vital fall
To kill a misanthrope
Who yearns to be
One amongst the harlequins
And penetrate the revelries
Of the emancipated gypsies.

It took the grandest shards
Of heaven, of oblivion,
And it took the best times
With my sole friend
To stir the fumes of vitality
Basking inside the vapidity
Of the hunger for death
And abhorrence,
And of reclusion.

I have long been hiding
Inside my own vault
Not telling anyone anything
But still heeding expectations
To be probed, to be hauled,
And still flailing and failing
Swirling in the scythes
Of death's surfeit suicide.

The stretch had been painful,
And I am tired
And rueful.
Now I plead for my death,
Because I wanted more life.

I will exacerbate
The assuage
In this vied death
To pawn for life,
Far from the woebegone demise
In the capitulation of mendacity
And into to the slicing graze
Of my parsimonious reality;
A sapid prostrate mount
In the insurmountable convalesce
I cried "Break-even".

I owe this to you,
My darkest nadir,
My greatest topple.

I owe this to you,
My false-exoneration,
My veracious puncture.

I owe this to you,
My restless friends,
My fluent threads.

I owe this to you,
The witness of the lion,
My ballasting pole,
My best friend, dear Owl.

I owe this to you,
Ugly and beautiful people,
And to you,
My misanthropy.

poem by Norman Santos
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Move Along

The roads had gone
Slewing with the temporal days
Of the kindest streaks
That had given you a place
And the impetus
To mount a leg
Without the other
Is harder at its best
As the place faded
And you try to do the same
Superimposing satisfaction
Into the zilch
Of bleak reinstitution
Of the weak constitutions:
Tongue's of lions,
Empiric barricades,
Gorging of the self.

Good riddance
To the memories
And hi de ho
To the veracity

It was still
The very best
A place
Where everything is requited
And as I stand still
With the far fetched times
I am ailed
By a tight-rope dance
In the silver line.

poem by Norman Santos
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The Fragments Of My Poetry

The fragments of my poetry
Mirror the tempests green
The billows black and frothing
In my breast.

The fragments of my poetry
Are chromosomes littered randomly
But from them the body of poetry
Can rise.

The fragments of my poetry
Are like the broken mirror:
That I broke silently -
My heart is broken.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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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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The Mountain And The Snake

a long black yellow snake with stripes
arrives hissing
looking for a prey
a rat perhaps
but there is none
not even an ant for a snack
and so the long black yellow snake with stripes of green
slides its way to a dark, moist cave
tight on its door
pushing its long slimy body
to the tip of the
cave's orifice to the end of its
intestine

it was a good tickle
and the whole body of the mountain
gives a tremble
a moan and from the slits of its sides
to the tip of its feet
and toes and trees
the whole body of the mountain
moans
happy with the long slimy body of the
snake's skin and bone.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Wonder Why

I sit here and wonder why
I can't let anyone inside my heart
My life is so cold and empty these days
Except for the fear
I seem to hold so close to my heart
Nothing interesting ever happened to me
I feel so dead inside
But somehow I keep on breathing
I wonder why I can't seem
To shake this feeling of desperation and anger
I sit and wonder why
I choose to live this way
With these thought that tries
To drive me to suicide everyday
I sit here and wonder why
I can't seem to bring myself
to do anything about my depression

poem by Beth Ann
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These Days

Well I've been out walking
I don't do too much talking these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do for you
And all the times I had a chance to
And I had a lover
But it's so hard to risk another these days
These days
And if I seem to be afraid
To live the life that I have made in song
Well it's just that I've been losing for so long
So I'll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving
These days
One of these days
These days I sit on cornerstones
And count the time in quartertones to ten
My friend
Don't confront me with my failures

song performed by by Fountains Of Wayne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Old Days

I remember the good old days.
The days when a black man such as myself could not even look at a white woman. Remember what happen to Emmett Till because he did.

Yeah the good old days
When a hard working woman named Rosa Parks got arrested
Just because she refused to get up and give a white man her seat.

The good old days
was when a group of men could burn down a of place worship
And kill four little black girls.

The good old days
When a man like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
got killed only because he had a dream.

I often hear people saying I miss the good old days.
But from my perspective those good old days
was not that good after all! !

poem by Lore Me34
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Game with the Queen

Exigent hands quaver with every piece and every move
Trepidation burns by the wrists and incinerates to approve
Taking leisure with the melody of the clacking marble board
Draining the chance in every silence, a scheme averting discord
A piece sent to the fore; one blind consoling assault
And a thousand fold behind; the corollaries' retort
The head of my pawns unabashedly roll on thy feet
Giving the sanctuary away but seizing through from defeat
A king not philanthropic, but defamed by a flimsy wreak
Of a lifelong war against the juxtaposed throne of golden bleak
Swords unsheathed, hearts on the sleeve; a heedless surrender
Vicissitude lapsed flailing with the knight of hope caped with forever
The erstwhile havoc brought life, and death, to a greater turmoil
An anticipated ally, an astonishing enemy, swords melted in recoil
To the opposing queen who fought for a convicted crown's abduction
If the king would meet thy grandeur in the front line, would there be vindication?
False hope akin to all hope, behead me for I will resurrect
How many times have I surmised and defeated whimsy death?

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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Winter won't end

The leaves are falling
The darkness comes early
The sun leaves no warmth
The emptiness grows
How I long for spring
Like the longer days, will bring hope
As if this passing, will ease the pain
A desperation clings to me
The season a reflection of my soul
But inside I know
That spring won't change anything
 the days will still seem dark
And the cold will cling to my heart
For you are my spring
For you are my sun
For you are what makes me new
For you are the reason for my hope
Time will pass 
Summer will come
But to no avail 

poem by Dom Hunt
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Sold My Soul

I prayed to God and jesus
But I guess they didnt hear
My sacrfice was useless
My pleas fell on deaf ears
So I cried in desperation
Bowed to evil sorcery
I looked to the lord in heaven
But he must have looked away
My crying eyes repentant
Please send her love to light my day
So I cried in desperation
Bowed to evil sorcery
I sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul to the devil
So I cried in desperation
Bowed to evil sorcery
I sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul to the devil
Sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul
Sold my soul
Sold my soul to the devil
To the devil
Sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul
I sold my soul
I sold my soul to the devil

song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poetry Of Confession

THE POETRY OF CONFESSION

The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-

Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-

The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –

The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-

The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –

A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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