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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House of the Setting Sun
In the tawny moiré of your eaves
I found a city lying asleep
Buried in their tangled locks
Of synthetic gold and
In the tinkers of inebriation
I found the streets
That will ferry me home
And the sun would never bow
To cut the salient swath
Of time and vertigo
Because these walls hold
The pliant corolla of
Of surfeit gaiety
And this floor is the threshold
Of infinite chances
In the pale gilded walls
I impale myself like a wallpaper
Slathering every soul
Into the graves in my skin
I am one with the yellow house
And we are the maladroit spin
Of the clock's wafting arms,
The silent breathing
In the attic's chambers,
And in your bright collection
Of quasars and chandeliers
I will never be a shadow.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Lion of the Dawn
The sun sliced through the ample sighs
Of the foggy dawn and grazed
The inert life in each
Quiescent leaves
Of the forest's canopy.
The world was a burning orb
In the misty horizon
Of its arid skin.
Every fraction started
Rousing into life,
From the blossoming buds
Of the wild bougainvilleas,
The elucidation of
The forest floor clad in moss,
The subtle tremble
In the boughs
Of the yawning tress,
The lifting waves
Of the hampered grass,
The fading of
The cricket's revelry
Paving way
For the cacophonous harmony
Of chirping birds;
And there was something sublime
Inside the chromospheres
Of the fulmination of life.
Something supple as
The battering of eyelashes
That is all the same surreal
That it can set forth
Colossal waves to another
Acknowledging eye.
Unfortunately,
Only a lionhearted soul
Could grapple this in sentience
Without suffocating the feral splendor.
In the belly of the shuddering abstraction
Lies a pristine vista
Of an olive pond.
It was making billowing ripples
Instigated by a pink unwavering tongue.
Massive paws rested on the fringes
Of the sodden aqueous mirror,
Serpentine tail wags in svelte grace,
And tuft suspicious ears
Twitch invariably as
An immensely sized and aloof head
Of gilded ropy hair
Bows into the mirror.
The steely gold orbits
That drown in the dithering cesspool
Mused on the pockmarks and scars
That squandered the dazzles
Of the tawny skin
He used to muse upon.
But then again,
With every roll of the undulating water,
He had seen the forest bloom
In a looming dance of ethereal flames
In the unfathomable surface
Of the impenetrable membranes
Of the pond.
The forest emerged vigorously
In its sedentary breathing,
Cloying the qualms of a
Ferocious cat in the distorted
Reflection of the pond
Of delusions.
The lion's heart was made of glass,
Frangible and brittle;
His bones were hollow
And they constantly quaver.
The lion's heart roared and prowled
Ripping the evanescence
Of both anguish and bliss.
The lion was weak
And easy to topple
But he burned of golden cinders
That spoke of a fervent desire
To stand in the front line of surrealistic
Crusades of heart
Without any remedy.
The forest has ears
And he can hear the vying
In every pounding of the forlorn chamber
Of the lion's heart.
The forest has eyes
And he can see the lion rising
Every time the sun would shatter
The mistral darkness of the eve
With zealous desire for life
In the verisimilitude of
The breaking dawn itself.
The forest had no tongue
But it had called the lion several times,
And the leaves pranced
For the wind to carry its message,
Brushing the laments of the lion.
The forest called him "The Lion of the Dawn".
And the forest could only brood
In the whim of each gloaming,
That he could never speak of
What the lion was
And no one would ever find
The lion in his lanky,
Unattractive and farcical veneer.
poem by Norman Santos
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Home Alone
I watched time crumble
On the brick floor's slumber
From its fated machinism
And the pallid light of summer
Leaning wearily on the walls
Escaped the frosted windows
With a somnolent opalescence
A wan and aimless escapade,
Such a dreamy afternoon
Where life pounces keeling out
Of gravity and vibrant hues
A slumbering dog, poignant from
The absence of barks and bones
An empty set of walls
Once a place called home
The house swooned over
From its winding knee
And struggling loop of
Tightrope heraldries,
Like the collapse of lungs
As a breath of verve escapes and
Heaves back with a titanic space
To accentuate the hollow break,
Topple and restore, filling emptiness
Without making a sound,
Without any motion, but
The absence of the souls
That became its constitutions
Floods the vivid light with gloom
And the summer is contained
Within a wintry solitude inside
The lone yearning bones
The curtains unruffled,
The floor spread wider,
The ceiling climbed loftier,
And the saudade croons
Played in the air waves
With laughs and simpers
Tinkering the static
And in this chamber,
For now, I'm home alone
Yet, soon, this place
Would be abandoned
By my trifle entity and
The company of my soliloquy
But not of my yearning
And shadows and shards
And lone feeling in the solitariness
That makes this place a home.
poem by Norman Santos
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Reveling
Sitting like a glacial fire
In a somber carousal,
Enthralled in the comport
Of the quagmire's sheets,
I tinkered swords with the sun
And played violin strings
With centipede legs crawling
In the tawny pastel walls
And sooty dozing eyes
And counted the halting susurrations
Of the clocks monotonous song
Waiting for the consummate abeyance
Where I will be one with oblivion
Under the Olympian curtains
And a vortex of uncertain
Seeping of blood to blood
And hauling of calamities
Inscribed in the ribs
Of colliding travesties
Let me resume my meander
Along the walls of marionettes
In the harlequin's bassinet
Let me drink the enzymes
And the technicolor bile
Of vim and demise
In the same impaling gorge
And make myself a vale
Of salted bodies
And gilded revelries.
poem by Norman Santos
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Still As A Clock
When will the lacquer veneer erode with
Serrated shards of your jubilant complacence?
The Walls of Troy shouting an echolalia
Of somnabulistic susurrations usurping
The harried ego vying in barricaded seams,
Still finagles its claws on the svelte frame
Of my despondent shoulders and the burden
Is etched deeply into the collar bones, strangulated
By the vines of your leisurely blooming garden
Where time sinks into the hollow void,
And strings of icicles soused in fire,
Forbidden memories sprawls like the dermis
Of the passing season's contingency,
And words fluttered like innocuous paper planes
Winnowed by heaving breaths of serendipity
And pummeled by the soft drizzles of verity
Tarnishing the frangible papyrus into the salient
Turbulence of malignant clouts of veracity
When will you arrive like the sun rise
Before you leave like the setting sun?
Dispose the vicissitude's blithe
With the inert plummets of life.
When will you leave like the shadows
Looming in the patios of the nights
And shudder in the vivid throws
Of fire balls and gospel songs?
When will your height reveal the distance
And the depths of the cognizance
Slapping the macadamized ignorance?
When will the engulfing calls
Die with the siren's songs?
When will the sirens drown
Along with the harried frowns?
I'm here, still as a clock
Futilely meandering.
poem by Norman Santos
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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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Pay No Obeisance Unto This Purgatory
Do not stoop down, dear friend
Walk underneath the moonshine
and bathe in her splendid light
Never conceal your agog shadow
praying for a moment of dancing
under her phosphorous luminescence
Walk through the seething fire
and bathe in the freezing hail,
wear your grandest masquerade
but never let the salient rivers
on your unfathomable mirrors
to slumber into abeyance
or succumb into oblivion and
forget the splendor of its radiance
Do not lean upon the thicket
of the looming trees around us
for they are rooted in a land
that will never quake and shatter
even when the gears relearn
their clockwork motions, for in the end,
desolation awaits alone
Seek the counsel of the flowers
and let them blossom with
the stashed lamentations
because these will be the bones
of the flaccid and lifeless silhouette
prancing and bowing haplessly
against the swooning of the monsoon
This will be the arsenal and turret
protecting the frangible beauty -
in the semblance of brambly thorns
slathering the slender body
Fall not into trepidation
and never succumb to defeat
as long as these slivers
of a shabby heaven
still manages to subsist
upon this purgatory.
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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The Making of a Prince I: I Named Her Sybella
A strident silence speared
Through a long famished alley,
A turgid hymn of air swooned
Reeking of sapid quandaries,
That was when I caught her breath
Asphyxiating from the cacophony
That her pensive hands whittled
In a callow toil to defy
The sequester of the sea and sky;
Vying to taut a prissy wry
The verve in her eyes, unseeing
The veins in her hands, clogged
The plethora of colors in her skin
Thaws in a concoction—a melancholia
She knelt in a prayer, weeping
Before adamant caryatids, fringing
Her horizon, it was hers,
I windwalked and trespassed
Her veil of secrecy, profoundly
Bore her my eyes, empathically
I desire to tell her of bliss—
How it lingers around and about
For those who desire it, but
I saw the cairn and candles
She tussled and endeavored:
A grave for all her hopes,
And for all my words, hushed
I picked her up like a blossom
Drifted from her garden and
I knew I know not to speak
To tell her that I know her
For her eyes was a sleeping mirror
And it shines and lust and sheen
I knew her, I knew her
And I named her after her:
"Sybella, The Lady of Secrets"
One of my elusive triumphs
For I have conquered
A vacuous space
Of a gilded heart.
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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Casanova
If I tell you
That I will take you to a castle
Buried in the sands,
Would you surmise
The esoteric grotesqueness
Of my chagrined empire
With walls of odes,
Firmament of naked
Despondence, incandescence,
The portcullis left ajar
For the meandering souls
Astray in the garish
Coruscations of the sun
And the feline yawning
Of the tinkering crystals
In every chandelier
Tells a tale
And caress a condole
More supple than the velvet
Curtains and carpets
The chiffonier that will carry you
In the caroming susurrations
Of the bland slurs
Of grandiosity
Will you slew in the rendour
Slopes of enigma?
Will you keep the portmanteaux
Bolted from the panorama
And swath the corona
Of the feral castigations
Of bigoted clovers
With four leaves
Establishing the thwarting
Of our weary eaves?
I shall wait
It shall stay
Till you trample in the pavements
Of unruffled cobbles
And quaff the gambles
In the goblet
Of perpetual fire.
poem by Norman Santos
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The Superfluity of Her Petals
In the dark of the pitch black velvet
Of the town's fluttering skies, she;
A rose, with quaint petals of solitary
Cries and somber interpolations
Scars the escritoire that could never
Bleed for her marred verve and demise
Saliently in silence she stirred the ripples
Of quietude and eviscerated the scorches
Perched upon her poreless skin
In the heraldry of emollient light orbs
Dangling in asunder lampposts parceling
The slumbering hostile doors and windows
Creating latticing shadows to eagerly dispose
The svelte prism of pristine strangeness
Austerely ensconced in this odorless town
Where motes plummet down eagerly
Whetting the lackluster sheen of her
Mystical redolence of truancy
Like an arachnid she spun her home,
Her grave, her trap, inside her bones
Like an arachnid she swings rooftops
With a silver thread in the semblance
Of a lynch and of an eloquent lace
To bind the mistral spell in the haze;
Her laces creates a psychedelic marquetry
That only few people can grasp and see
Those who danced with the shadows,
Those who pounced with the fall,
Those who quaffed the tea and spew
The pseudo-saccharine innuendo,
Those who plucked the thorns
Crawling the ladders of your hue,
Are here with me for you.
poem by Norman Santos
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Tangerine
Tangerine, turning green
Cellophane, window pane
Socialise, paralysed
Plastic faces suck me dry, tangerine, tangerine, tangerine, tangerine
Chorus:i know its sad, lifes just a piece of fruit
Touch down, new ground
Stop living on the moon - (repeat chorus)
Twenty eight, suffocate
Take a ride, see me fly
Detonate, feel it break
See myself disintegrate, tangerine, tangerine, tangerine, tangerine
(chorus)
See it as I climb, the rain burns in my eyes
So catch me as I fall away, tangerine, tangerine, tangerine, tangerine
(chorus)
I know its sad...
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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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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Gouging the Sun's Vessels
Here we go again, after forty-seven sunsets
Counting the insurmountable steps
Ballasting in the wicks of fireballs emblazing
Subtly stirring the warm nostalgic lullaby
Soused in a maladroit tangerine fire
That parcels the dirty grass blades oozing
From the notches of the downtrodden path
Here, again we bask enthralled to the wafts
Of the gloaming's ubiquitous crowd
Here, we find the footsteps heaved
In the sands desperately fertilizing
In an echopraxic melancholia
Here, we linger with the truant and the charlatan
Five thousand footsteps slumbering in the bassinet
Of inebriated foreign tongues
Stomping upon the malingering apprehension
Mirth and gloom registered in the visage of our liaison
But the sun shall not halt for the summer eve sky
Or the toppling pillars of our frail constitutions
We shall not digress with the violent gush
Rather we let the body be laid to rise
As the sojourner of the sun's setting
Without groveling, permit it be
And watch the footsteps thaw
Into the harlequin sun's maw
We are the wafting and the wisp
Of every dusk's shrouded sleep
And in the oblivious latticing of rays
We shall wander aimlessly the afternoon asleep
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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Emaciated Shadow
The sun ballasted searing aloft
And the emollient equinox escalated
The taunting ladder of schism
Upon the bequeathed garden
And, startled, everyone erected
Shifting legs and reloading guns
Never realizing the core of the brunt
Each one, feigning to be the only begotten son
Naked are the clandestine hedonists,
Clad in silk are the quaint sybarites,
And the ignorant martyrs were repelled
Into the flueret floors of the chasm
Where the light deemed barricaded
From reckoning the mantling shade
Meanwhile, the shadows were casted
Upon the vexed and judged ones
I mused on the cantankerous catastrophe
As the others transgressed in hubris
From the sycophancy of their shadows,
Dishabille in the mistral dearth of light,
Or perhaps, the dense veneer of darkness
To incarcerate the squalid phantoms
Inhospitably emancipated from the erratic
Flight of the aeon's shoddy orifice
While I pry and veer from side to side
Languidly probing for the stoic incarnation
Of my fears in the faceless silhouettes
The stoic scant of my void frame
Of two layers: stick and stone,
Was caught in the fangs of chagrin
Illuminating that I have but a single line;
A taut string of a shadow
Whilst the other's loom loftier
Than their own lambasted carcasses
Mine was a sole stroke of graze
Of Apollo's superfluous blade
My vessel was, perhaps, beleaguered
By an emancipation more profound
Than the ineptitude of the bassinet
Of carrions and amorphous crows
For I have been breathing whilst regurgitating
The gift, or curse, of Mnemosyne
And the iron mask may be scathed
But it was wedged in a profound depth
And the cicatrix is not dabbed with hoping
Rather, in a plethora of fear and repression
I had bled with all the sorrow
I had lived a vociferous shadow
And this is not aggrandizing the tales
Of my consummated defeat
And there is no exoneration
In the heraldry of shadows
For in the final grains of sandman
I have only awoken to find
That I have been sleeping awake
And when the sun bursts, I had gone first.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Are All Savage Underneath
A sullen ochre rose reluctantly
Breaking dawn in the distance
An oblique path of sleepy ray
Flashed across the coiled bedlam
I rubbed the comported eyes
And the pallid ebullient light
Revealed the tolls of lucid dreaming
And reeled an abhorrence to waking
In a place that was my safeguard
Now a cellar of mordant jealousy
From the tobacco scent suspended
To the ruffled gaunt sheets
Rue lingered with a phantom smile
Eyes burning behind a grimace
These blood stained hands lay
Seething in the wrists
With the blood of a crime—
Claws in a pang in the viscera
A tattoo of guilt that will
Oppress the ignorance until
It topples to fiendishly release
The soul of alloy and steel
Back to its hapless vulnerability
And the malignant paroxysm
Will reckon my old fashion
Of living in daunted emotions and
Struggling from fissures of lamentations
Caressing and nurturing death
To burn the leaves of life
Impaled with many sufferings
Tonight, with the cavern growing
And the shadows behind the escritoire
Pleading for a macabre dance
I shall unlatch the demon spawned
From the cloys of your flatteries
And the inveigles of your geniality
That was savage underneath
For you despised me, after all,
For treading the waters and dunes
That you possessed and owned
My sincere apology shrieks
A lightning fork of pain
For what caused your conundrum
Was my very quintessence
You cried, you bled, and pointed
A trembling sanguine finger
I was your murder
Who you were
And who you are
Battled and connived
Inside my bones,
Inside my home
With who I am and was
Either way, you won.
I fastened manacles on my feet
Riveting me in a dark nook
Out of lights reach for
I opt to be buried in the dark
Basking in double edge swords
And a cesspool of saline blood
And never shall I meander
In your querulous roads
Until one misbegotten day
I will radiate from this holocaust
Without the acrimonious vagary
And the connoisseur indictment
That you whispered in my vanity
In this den of thieves
We are all savage underneath.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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