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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Related quotes
where are your powers Babylon?
Illustrious Babylon
where are your powers now?
city of fame
city of gold and silver
city of a famous name
where are your powers now?
city of wonders
empire of sin
Babylon
city of ruins
mighty Babylon
city of prowess
empire of old
empire of supremacy
rich with stolen gold
where are you now?
city of the hanging gardens
city holding the righteous captive
where are your powers Babylon?
city of desolate wastes
ferocious Babylon
look out over the valley
Cyrus the great of Persia
with his army of men
and Darius the Mede
with his army of men
diverting the great river Euphrates
and sneaking under your walls
your 'impenetrible walls
Babylon
city of ruins
Where are your powers
King Nebuchadnezzar?
your colossal gate is open
your subjects are drunk
drunk with wine and blood
unaware of approaching destruction
living their normal course of life
where are you now Babylon?
heaped in ruin and desolation
...forever
now just a dry desert plain
and the wind goes...hush...
poem by Allen Steble
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Attic Key
When the transpiration of earliest dews
Failed to staid and invigorate
The amputated isthmus of the atrium
You would blithely shun
All the lovely, saccharine bones
Even the crunchy stride
Of the svelte V-formation
Of the veering migrating birds
Paving the soggy nimbuses
Of hapless shades and parasols
For they unfurl a reminder
Of capitulating abandonments
And like a wolf without a howl
You would aimlessly amble
With feet of morose
To cave inside, distraught,
In the clandestine dappled corners
Where the myriad of the dead
And the plenitude of dying breaths
Rattle uncouthly for
A greater hunger
And in the riving of hushed comport
Of the attic's remedy
You would sulk to descry
Your maudlin heart beating briskly
Sodden from the attrition
Of the charlatan sun
Amongst the trellises of cobwebs
And shoddy bed of dusts
You would lay your empathy
And the stagnant breathing
Of the attic's clockwork verve
Would feign an assuaging sweep
To resuscitate the prattling blood
Fervently seeping through
To clutch you closer
Like a bullet darting through
The place where no one knew
Divulging its own nadir
And that was all
That your bleeding needs
To find that you are
Not yet in the bottom
Of your so called pits
And the sun would again seethe
Grazing mellifluously
The bullets buried
To your aching lovely bones
And swear and spiel a promise
To purge the bleak attic
From its latticing derision
And let the light stray and stall
When the next morning dawn
But you always seem to forget
Where the promises coiled
Perhaps, you have crucified a script
In the scathing walls of the chambers
Of the pumping mechanical valves
That you need the fathoms
Of the attic's secrets
So you would stash
The attic key
Into the pathos
Of remorseful wisps
In cases
Of emergency.
poem by Norman Santos
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3 Legged Races
The insulated melody
Of the dripping spigot
And the restless weather vane
Drops tranquility in fathoms
That can make an ocean
Vast of wondering
Instigating a stride
Into a walk, a haste, where
Another leg is welcomed
Whilst you endure the lack
Of company in the ethereal
Highway of romantic jargons
And the tales in your skin
Ran down like the insulated melodies
Of disquietude devoid of
Tranquility, it flashes down
Like virulent kerosene
Sifting through lacerations
And yearning saliently
To burn the virgin lamentations
Reckon infinitely and
Convince the maladies
To crawl back in the nightmares
That haunts on unconscious states
And vie to steadfast into
The eager eyes riveted
In the horizon where
You belong and these thoughts
Ousted, run in a steady pace
Unencumbered by another leg
And do not trip crumbling
To lose their paces
Into the vale, faceless
poem by Norman Santos
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L'e Esprit De L'esclair
Basking into the shadows
That loomed like pillars
Raising the canopies high
Making room for innuendos
While the feet sank into the sand
With their gilded smiles glistening
You are an impenetrable mirror house
Where the clocks cannot croon
Neither halt nor pant, in askance
Rummaging to topple and unfurl
The naked terrain of conflagration
Spewing thin films of smokescreen
As walls to build an empiric wall
And cradle the ingredients of reveries
Such auspicious mendaciloquence, yet
Abatement buried its fangs deep
To inject the insidious venom to seethe
And devour the endeavor completely
Into the void belly of the vast galaxy
And as they leave without opening
Your adamantine gates nor closing
You sulk, plummeting into the fathoms
A subtle castle drowning hastily
Into the quicksand that you brew
Whilst tacit words pirouetted
Winnowing the emollient clouds
Like the danseuse sun and charring
The eloquently woven ties
No one pries, entangled in salient
Vies of lies and you die a trifle
Suffice enough to crash a city
Made of gambling cards
The adversity is in the shabby cot
Stinging like bed mites, swooning
The undaunted times of disquiet
In your slumber— a demon without
Prongs or trident forks, a hue
In the visage of preempted rues
Clacking its fastidious heels with
The spilled vision of a sentinel
That you failed to build, hence
Failed to smother and keep, whilst
The artillery shrill gallantly
Of the home that wanders leisurely
A caravan you cannot keep up with
For your quavering malaises needs
A mooring point, a peg, gravity
That stays when all else linger
Far from the swelling lips
Of the omnipresent pit.
poem by Norman Santos
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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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Empire Of My Mind
Well, there is trouble in my mind
There is dark
Theres dark, and there is light.
I lay our hands over my eyes
As I look deep
Through valleys deep and wide
Across the border line
For the empire in my mind
You are the reason I dont sleep
You are the light
Thats breaking through the leaves
You know how hard I try
To believe
I have something good inside
Over barricades I climb
For the empire in my mind.
I have no love somewhere in time
Ive been lifted up
Ive looked honor in the eyes
I have no reason; I have no rhyme
I cannot deny
Theres a darkness thats inside
I am guilty by design
And now I realize
The temptations made me blind
To the empire in my mind
There is no order
There is chaos
And there is crime
There is no one home tonight
In the empire in my mind
There is no distance that I dont see
I do have a will
No limit to my reach
I wish I would; I wish I might
See a line tonight
Separating wrong from right
Some are only born to try
And maybe thats the reason why
I am afraid someday Ill find
There is no empire in my mind
There is trouble in my life
There is trouble in my life
song performed by by Wallflowers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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White
These stark and sterile corridors,
These immaculate walls and floors
Of lambent amnesia and senile senses
Could only beckon the onset of oblivion
In these gray rooms, the shade of the sun
Cannot fecundate the insensate gloom
Our slivers linger on like echoes of chortles
And simpering rolls of tears amidst the smoke
The wind howls through the windows
And the forgetful floor and gregarious fortifications
Basked into its inebriated brawl dumbly
Forgetting the lofty pillars that once surrounds me
The shadow mused the prancing beacons
And confound it to the ephemeral joie de vivre
Because there is nothing left to be done
But to mourn in the incarceration of the self
I apologize for ripping the golden manacles
And for bleeding from its sharp and gelid grip
And for washing the streak of sunlight
That plastered the lackadaisical walls
The guilt oppresses me, far more than oblivion
Because I love who we were, I miss who we were
But we will never be complete again
In a house of white-phantom corridors
poem by Norman Santos
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The City of God
CITY of God, how broad and far
Outspread thy walls sublime!
The true thy chartered freemen are,
Of every age and clime.
One holy Church, one army strong,
One steadfast high intent,
One working band, one harvest-song,
One King Omnipotent.
How purely hath thy speech come down
From man’s primeval youth;
How grandly hath thine empire grown
Of Freedom, Love, and Truth!
How gleam thy watchfires through the night,
With never fainting ray;
How rise thy towers, serene and bright,
To meet the dawning day!
In vain the surge’s angry shock,
In vain the drifting sands;
Unharmed, upon the Eternal Rock,
The Eternal City stands.
poem by Samuel Johnson
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Dance Of Lost Phantoms
A brimful of hath had gone astray
With the torpor of the rainy days
As the patina of tobacco-scent sliced
A wanton interpolation beneath my nose
Where the balmy cloys created a fog
Hollering your frangible visage
Beneath the mistral canopy and the sapid
Temptations of the dilettante eve
I beseech for a putrefied glory
That used to ripple beneath my feet
Where had gone the buoyancy
And the ethereal perpetuity
Extending eloquently
With every heaving breathe?
Where gone the pillars
Ensconced within the cellars
Of my swinging heart?
To what do these lungs demand?
These fingers sense a certain grave
With every shiver of your grotesque gaze
Paints patent traces of life and its vibes
The lipstick upon this weary cigarette
Sketches back to the soulless faces
And broken stories of song
Vibrant and floral salvation,
Has woe taken you away?
Into the depths of hue and despair
You aren't incapable of a dark murder
Sighing with bars clung to your chest
Can you see the sun pirouette in your name?
The blur gets denser, I see no blinking eyes
Flashes of white and cold, burning blue
Cut through the prisons of your requiem
Die with me tonight, to live another death
Die with me tomorrow, to live another end
poem by Norman Santos
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The Winter Of The Sun
Glacial sighs mantled the breaking light
in a soft dislmning abrasion
Like whispers lifted from the frost
that sheathed the slumbering sun
behind the solace of our sequence
and tedium of our shenanigans,
but the austere silence it brought
had drifted with a lack of euphony
and calm for macabre had conquered
the prying eyes and mangled with
the atrocious affliction brought
by the premature winter of the sun
The ice sheets that I meander started
to shatter and thaw, but the kingly fire ball
remained suspended on his veracious
gesture of absence, his superfluous fingers
pointed with a jeopardy through
the unlocked and opened barricades
where the black embers futilely honed
its red eyes like devils lurking inside
the curtains, and the veil was ripped
to divulge what weeps soundlessly
behind the tatterdemalion tapestry
There was nothing but a lifeless smoke
climbing the svelte ladders of time,
Smoke that seethes with anguish and
wrecks and lusts for the shallow heaven
that the cinders spat and denied;
Smoke from incinerated hands -
hands that wrought words feigning valor,
hands that rocked its own trembling cradle,
hands that grew iron from caliginosity,
hands that are empty and flimsy
where everything sifted like a formless wind
indifferently passing through the windmills,
hands that can only quell the warmth
of the sun when it tries to break from
the winter inside its eternal frame.
poem by Norman Santos
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Stellar Musing
From behind the moon's harlequinade;
Your skin ornately prancing in the blear
Colder than the thin and flimsy mist,
Your face cradling an orchestra of smiles
Muffled in the fading mimicry of echoes,
Your abstraction realer than the dream
That you are when you were here.
From the protracted expanse and
The truant galloping instance, I probed
And groped for an orb of light to hold
Like a ballasting banister only to solder
My eager and supple hands, now aglow
Slowly crumbling from holding what it cannot.
And the Gods had judged the episodes
And written them on the stars, one for each,
Mine I cannot find, or perhaps, accept
Sensitive to fate and denial, I wiped
The wisps of silver light grazing the small
Contours of my face—happy and sad
From the corner of the room where the sun slept
Two thousand days, I muse amongst the stellar
Riveted, and with every violent breath of verve
A little death expires from the seething lungs
A little give and take, a juggling to compensate
The lackluster of kaleidoscope visions to crown
The poignant asunder of your galaxy and the stars
poem by Norman Santos
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Masticated By Ignorance
There is an eye fashioned from iron
A steely cold cellar for a famished soul
Iron eyes feigning to macadamize
The dark circlets around the orbits
A wreath of cinder from the toppled
Empire, a shriveled recollection
Of lacerations and ecstatic slurs
A stringing harp of the devil
There was a man with iron eyes
Reeking of a valuable possession
Exhumed from a constant oppression
A gilded and ciphered fanaticism
A lopsided ribbon of disposition
A fortified super imposition
That devoured the man's vision
And cloyed the nausea into gagging
With a cigarette rolled on his hand
And panic knotting on the other
Fear wedging on his angry teeth
The lanky man rode a lightning
And ripped the undulating street
All downhill the ocean floor
Devoured by the mad looming city
Devoured by a blossoming paranoia
This man was spruced with derailment
A delusion that no doctor or witch
Can diagnose and convalesce
He ran and ran, unknowing what's on his hands
Past the livid vultures and hissing panthers
In the pavement of a mad hostile jungle
He would traipse and will be preyed
No one knowing that he didn't know
poem by Norman Santos
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Debut
Eighteen roses
with manifold thorns
floridly swaying with
the flummox of motes
and then there was
a single carnation
unabashedly uncurling
and prying behind
the reticent curtains
of my endless nights
Eighteen candles
with mouthful of garish lights
devouring moths
with ludicrous invitations
and then there was
a lone chandelier
flickering many orbs
to a consummate glow
to deluge the dark and unfurl
these clandestine volitions
Eighteen treasures -
flamboyance gilded by
dilettante architectures
profligate the leisure
and pillage the quintessence
and then there was
a lissome string
unfettered from the poisons
of mediocre demarcations
unlatch the vault and reveal
your struggles, your lights, your shadows
Eighteen years
of an eternal waltz caroming
the clean lines of living
bemuse the fastidious poetry
and outgrow your limitations
and then there was
a single descrying of time
when your roses shall blossom,
your candles shall hone visions,
your treasures shall encompass grandiosity;
now, titillate your shy unreality.
poem by Norman Santos
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Tale of Three Cities
New York blasted London blasted
Singapore -
Ripped off each other's metaphoric balls,
Crumbling walls.
Priapic city monoliths -
Blue-sky scraping bastards -
Shout about their height (but really length) .
V8 arseholes didn't care -
Pumping shit into the air,
So long as they were always there to
Fart aloud a smoggy cloud,
Laughing at the weak asthmatic,
Humoured that it seems traumatic.
Watch the greedy cities oozing
Chair-bound fat committees, though they
Look a bunch of titties as they
Waffle on about the pound.
Ever thought to look around and see
That they were dead?
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Big City Nights
Music :rudolf schenker
Lyrics:klaus meine
When the daylight is falling down into the night
And the sharks try to cut a big piece out of life
It feels alright to go out to catch an outrageous thrill
But its more like spinning wheels of fortune
Which never stand still
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
When the sunlight is rising up in my eyes
And the long night has left me back at somebodys side
It feels alright for a long sweet minute like hours before
But its more like looking out for something
I cant find anymore
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
Always yearning
There is no dream
That you cant make true, if youre looking for love
But theres no girl
Whos burning the ice away from my heart
Maybe tonight!
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
Always yearning
Big city, big city nights
You keep me burning
Big city, big city nights
Always yearning
song performed by by Scorpions
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early Works - Silent City
The setting sun silhouettes
a pair of figures arm in arm
staring out at shimmering waves
from beach sandy bare
burdens of the real world
have disappeared behind
silence is golden
as is peace of mind.
Dark clouds like stretching fingers
move across the sky
lights of a million lives
switch on across the city
yawns from young sleepy heads
are caressed by a lullaby
the city is at peace now
silent in its sleep.
11-12 February 1980
poem by David Harris
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City gate
Men may say a “natural state”
With city walls and city gates
Is superfluous in it’s greed
And in attempts to make believe
We’re all in honest company.
Yet give a thing autonomy
And choice: Order or anarchy
You’ll find that things like property
And city walls and city gates
Come often all too easily
To a truly “human” state
poem by Lazarus Knix
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Cruising The Chesapeake
Skyline fading in evening haze...
The air is warm and still...
Music lost in the sweltering heat - and
No one brave enough to dance
Although the beat is good.
Baltimore, we hail your flickering lights in the
Distance as we graduate toward your land marks...
Ft. McHenry first - we salute you!
Bouys flash caution while smoke and night
Darken the sky...
Waves whisper as we cruise - no air to prod them
On to loud conversation!
Baltimore skyline,
Shadows etched in dark and light harmony...
No breeze echoes the crowd but light laughter
Makes the evening sweet.
Card players top side...slap - slap...
No other motion in that corner...
Wind indicator tells a sad tale but we trail
The water path gallantly waving at the
Silhouettes of independent boaters...
Baltimore, we approach your newness in mortar and steel
The 'leg of 695' someone says.
I had the urge to sing The Star Spangled Banner...The Francis
Scott Key Bridge so magnificently beautiful before us
Like a giant erector set...
We cruise under and everyone becomes historian...
Tour lecturers from every corner...
'Fragile beauty' one gent exclaimed!
A coast guard cutter coursed behind us in the
Gentle waters...Its whistle bade us 'Hello! '
Baltimore, you beautiful, beautiful lady,
Tonight we love you still - though you've bottled
Your air elsewhere...
Perhaps in the city streets...
A speed boat turns to follow and tease us
He has conquered air, water and sky with his freedom.
Ft. Carroll - electronic day light in our focus
Then,
Sparrows Point!
We turn
And at last
A breeze!
We capture it in the grab bags of our lungs
Heading home.
poem by Dorothy Holmes
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Come To Me 07
Come to me dark angel, I need thee tonight
Unleash upon me, those merciless hunters eyes.
Come to me dark angel, I crave thee with in
Those hands that tear my heart, and infuse my skin
I beckon thee dark angel, how I taste your lips
That mouth that sears my totality, with a hypnotic tongue and teethy nips
Oh my angel, it is not your light that I seek,
But your darkness your savagery, that drives my aching body
Know me dark angel, as my soul calls to thee
Strangely your depth and demons comfort mine,
As you plunge me into dark desire,
I beckon thee dark angel, I am liquid fire burning for your claim
See me dark angel, as I see thee
Humane though not quite human, pour your fantasies into me
I care not what the dawn brings
I need thee dream angel, tonight be real and only for me
poem by Kira Bloom
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Vast Empire And Fallen Throne.
A vast empire surrounds us
But we stand with the fallen throne and
Confounded and crestfallen we are.
Our empire of amasses; not of accumulations!
Our empire of ownership; not of master-hood!
Our empire of intelligence; not of erudition!
The throne lies down with its jewels gone,
It lies at our feet and none can pick it up.
We feel on our skull the shame of past.
Our throne of civilisation; not of progress!
Our throne of peace; not of harmony!
Our throne of diamonds; not of copper
The empire will swell and explode next
And our throne will lie buried ever.
The empire will thereafter turn into a planet of its own
And go on the orbit of might and moss and
Our throne will join the fossils down deep!
The ides of the present remain told aloud!
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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