Where The Roots Sank
The incarcerated echoes
Inside your robust cage
Of ivories and porcelains
Resonated your name
Coiling into the navel
Where a brambly foliage lay,
Where one fates to fumble
Rummaging for an enigma
Ensconced in a solitary rose
With soldering petals of flame
Enervating the void dark
And the austere ravine stark
To pounce yonder your eaves,
Swell mellifluously condescending
Malignantly ascending
Like a staircase pummeling
The heaven in you tresses
And it reached my low canopies
In an eloquent fashion
Resembling the sun's expedition
Skipping through sodden trellises
Ineffable and esoteric
As how tomorrow's gloaming
Can set before today's dawn
Your infernal flower possessed
An enthralling redolence
A mystery more puissant as
It entangles its thorny vines
Into the slicing vesper's face
A labyrinthine for a rat race;
A phantom damsel for a dying knight,
An adversary for a chivalrous crusade,
An ensnare for the despondent beau
Of aphorism and ideals, all the same
A vermillion spit of life
Licking the brittle bones
No grander than the comported semicide
Ablaze my graze as I submit
To your inveigling light
Usurp my entity and bury me
In your fastidious color
And I shall thaw in your amber
Like a wax molding to morph
Brand new visions and inflections
I shall swim through your blood
And reside in your pulsations
Let me sink yonder your lips
Ajar and trifling a perplexing limbo
Of Eden's horrifying grandeurs
Until I become one with the flames
Its prancing and its stings
And the plummeting of the cinders
Spewed and ousted from the core
The warm hearth where everything
Is enticed to thaw, to sink.
poem by Norman Santos
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Garden Of Drudgery
My vicious skies disengaging the exiguous quasars
To thaw the soldering frost-mourn aloft inside
And the maudlin with a frozen brook in a jar
Drowned with shriveled legs from the labyrinthine stride
Now, above head is a mirror of the vast sea
Of people feigning their sedative bliss for agonies
And abortive sorrows propelled in the chalcedony
Sinking everything in a valley of roses and drudgery
Come, lay with me and muse as the albino sun
Scull its superfluous fingers to sine the parliament
Of hostile macabre breaths debauching the wan
And pointless toiling to own or keep the firmament
In the brambly floor of this frowned vale
We shall lacerate to bleed out the vying soul
Until our skin can feel no more, our bones so frail
Shall not break no more, and we will be the lips of the hole
In this garden of drudgery, fluttering with the plucked petals
Everything is painted with the darkest golderfloes
The nadirs are preempted fluent in stains of the vestal
And walls are mightier than the bridges' tows
For the plethora of flowers brew a puissant redolence
That vexes the quintessence of a mystified vagabond
The strings of aromatic auspicious few is now in valence
With treacherous taste of cyanide flaming to abscond
poem by Norman Santos
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Traipse
In the hearth of the slumbering road
Where you saunter to extemporize maps
The amber tinkers with the pulsations
And thaw everything that darts through
Making a cesspool where everything sank
Including I and my futile endeavors
Amalgamating with the last tears
Of the austerely saturated gloaming.
poem by Norman Santos
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I Built a Citadel to Burn
The superfluity of adamant nights and babel of storms
Tarried and wrecked the quietude of my sleepy home
Desperately I groped for a banister, for a reeling rope
A lynch for long abeyance or a pallid streak of hope
But this town is already a wraith of its own ghosts
And perish is near, unabashed to morph a colossus form
Brick atop a brick, a tourniquet of bastion I built
Endeavoring to feign the contours of a thousand mirth
And vie I did, to an assuaging forget but not to flee
From the peremptory entice of effulgent revelries
And a shadow I casted, never shall falter nor tilt
And becoming the verve of the citadel I built
The soulless lullaby of bulwark walls err shan't
Dark shall fade, storms shall beat and die to pant
A safeguard from the descrying coruscations of light
Sequestering with its shadows, unfurling many a terror
Of veritable sorrows that yonder facilely linger
And these walls, like sleep and lullaby, only lulls my horror
The corridors protract in a labyrinthine vast
Succumbing all echoing calls in the patina to rust
The lofty ceiling looms and jarringly taunts
To beguile you of depth, and of ravine haunts
Even the chandeliers tinker mendaciloquence
To superimpose the bliss I heed for defense
Outside the portcullis, nil can penetrate
Inside the halls, beckons of lone are desperate
Nary a chance the adversary could shuffle
To bring this cordon down to its graceful topple
Such aggrandized fortress perhaps can save
The king I made from a doggedly slave
As the king that I was exultantly revels inside
Comported by the hearth and his sovereign's stride
The coals of fire beckons in charred cinders
A crown of thorns once worn that never quavers
And of the present yet remote storm and dark forlorn
Inside his simpers and under his throne
The suppressing citadel throttled inside
His black and dying heart long put aside
Insensitive to the fray of the city and of his own
The phantoms roused from their stiff reckon
How sad was he in his contrived perpetuity
Filling the void by burying all that he was in a city
Secluded and protected it was, idyllic not quite
The sedations will ebb to fade out in the blight
And lone inside his walls of salient divide
A grave, a cage, succumbed by his own tide
And so tonight, despite late and futile
The king built a citadel to burn and born his plight
poem by Norman Santos
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Without You
On the wings of the night
I wager for another glance
the doors were closed
even before the departure
but the windows are ajar
on your open sleep
There is a limbo behind
the beseeching and crestfallen
but this yearning cannot lie,
its veracity cannot be tamed
so I tethered myself, caged myself
until I grew more savage
and even more desperate
I miss you and I miss you
too much that it would kill
like a lynch embracing tight,
you descend into my skin
like a fang and every night,
you come with larcenous feet
like a saccharine death on a slumber
Vines embraced the epitaph
and the etched date slurred
There is a brooding loneliness
underneath this sleeping grave
but it won't hatch in this cold
until your raging flame pounce
Yonder, under the moon
I can feel you shudder
and the shuffling of your feet
as you danced in oblivion
and I envy the night
as it pranced with you
The bones shivered
but it melt into ashes
and the wind won't ferry it
and the sea won't sink it
I need your final clout
or your familiar joust
Without you, the silhouettes
who stood as my beacons
for my derided weight
the days turned to dreams
and dreams turned to phantasms
I can feel a shattering
its fulmination trapped inside
my asylum heart
poem by Norman Santos
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A New Flame for the Old Embers
The vapid rain breaking upon the quietude
of the pebbles under our monastic feet
reminds me of the words sent into your halls
ricocheting like a phantom's dying plea -
futilely emitted from the shy rupture,
a premature eruption, to taste the savvy
of disappointments and rueful affinities
How aplomb are the pummeling underneath
the weather's veins - blue and sterile as
the ethers inflamed inside my nights
I fell into a dreamy stupor, loquacious sibilance
stings like a razor from the charred memories
And, through and through, I slide inside
the abortive cradle of fire, wondering
if the flames invoked by the same embers
are alike, or do they dissipate and die
when the rain collapses from its slumber
and leave remnants of its piquant touch to
give birth to another ocean of soldering mirages
In this horizontal vertigo of water and flame,
I instill enigmas into the interpolating leaves
and some other night, under a new moon
I would ruminate awake and bleared: to what
these soughing violins of the trees demand?
Like a thunder whetted by the extremities
of temperature, I hoard all these injuries
and soon would my sun reveal its horns
and the superfluous flames it had hatched
from the brooding upon atrophied ties
Because for now, I can only live inside
the chrysalis of the mind, cicatrizing
the salted wounds and dabbing the
beautiful smears that I shall nurture
to make wings of vanity and, here
I shall dream of flitting back unto
your cavernous firmament like
a defunct chandelier swooning for
your flamboyant palettes, and dream
I shall, until the colors subside and dissolve
into my fastidious realizations
of lacquered flames prancing
above these cold ancient coals.
poem by Norman Santos
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I Saw Him Again
I saw him again.
The last time I found him
Eating fervent fire and drinking wine
Reveling in the elegiac dusk
Uttering of cheap talks and of dusts
And on how vicariously cognizant he was
On how it precipitates and wan
From defying the plummeting
To catch the sun's elusive graze
To participate and transpire
In the esoteric feast of grace
Thus, he's reveling, to outlast.
I saw him again.
The last time I exhumed him
Thawed in the nook of the world
Like a vulpine fox, a surreptitious raven,
Perched at the hinges of the firmament
Wearily encumbered by his wry and fake smile
Malingering to part the doldrums and acquaint
With a superfluity of colours, brand new contours
Swaying with the scathes of the pendulum
Dousing the evil (replete and deplete) parting his lips,
Whittling the lulling stupors of a lullaby
Sundering the soul, the sea, the sky.
I saw him again.
The last time I muse upon him
He was enraptured by the curtaining rain
And vexed by the fandango of the sun;
They are both made of daggers to him
In his peripatetic stillness void of calm
He mused the pole-dance of the stars
Until his eyes are stark white and blind
From the suppurations of iridescent light
He searched for his unfathomable core, blindly,
And deciphered the ominous intricacy
Ousting him from the heraldry.
I saw him again.
The last time I saw him
He wore his suit of grandiosity
Graying from the long haul
His face devoid, his apathy ensconced
In the bones, in the constitutions
His eyes sprawled in the slumbering mirror
(Now half awake, half-barely-alive) ,
He smolder in flames to congeal
From the serrated remnants
Where verve and demise connive
To intertwine, and there perpetually die.
The next time I'll see him
I hope it will be in his funeral
Donned in an absolute smile.
poem by Norman Santos
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Segments Of A Circle
The stained-glass sky flounces and shatters
As the wonder of the night scintillates
Upon the sleeping skin of a promenade
In the circlet roads of a silent ballet
Light perched foots steps trample upon
The maladroit blotches of the porch lights
And beneath the maw of the waxing moon
Was the silhouette of a gaudy woman
She would always be the same woman
In her sapid vagueness, no peculiarities
No sobriquets, no facades, no niceties;
A plummeting ballet herself
She is always in the equipoise of my eyelids
At the beginning and end of rainy days
Quaffing the gray sketches of the atmosphere
Riding the blue winds of tranquilized euphoria
She is always out there like the chirps of a sparrow
Whenever the moon laze in her eiderdown couch
She would be leaning effulgently to kiss the stars
That incinerates with her enigma
Sometimes she would be tender like a conch's whisper
A surging lullaby standing by the bedpost
Crooning in the veranda and the breaking tides
In harmony with the sirens' song
Sometimes she would be a nightmare
A phantom crumpling every reverie
A pristine picture clawed by dementia
Pinned into the frangible ceiling
The nostalgia slumbering in her brittle bones,
The wonder combing her coal tresses,
And the buoyant nights in her screaming palms
Sometimes, I think I know this woman
Before the sun rise and set in the roof beams
I do try to cipher her riddling phantasm
A void silhouette with a potent effect
A salient ballet injured in a pirouette
Time after time, a voice behind the blear
Would wake me from this saccharine dream
Before the steely teeth of veracity would notch
And spray the poison in a treacle cup
And how many times have I denied—
Seeing you beneath the eaves of daylight
Without the mystery but still in anonymity
With the same nostalgia inside the nattering bones?
How many times have I seen you—
Your face elucidated by the hands of dawn
Your name flowing out of my derided lips
And sometimes, in my nacreous eyes?
I think I know this woman of sometimes
The flakes of her grandiosity and her horrors
Perched upon the equipoise of a cycle
In undisruptive segments of a circle
Sometimes, I think I know this circle
Thousand falcate roads for a ceaseless rat race
That never ends owed to the unstable segments
Alluring for ecstasy, calling for quietus.
poem by Norman Santos
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Lambaste Unto Your Shattered Reflection
Softly, the mist came with its trifle attention
lackadaisically promenading in the silver stillness
but nothing in this quiescence is intimate enough
to quell the raving flames of your furnace
shorn openly to desecrate the lacings of faith
I picked up the debris of your blaring tirade,
I cupped the ashes of your sterile lambaste,
I reckoned the vicarious pirouettes with death -
our hands are both tarnished but my soul stifles
under the condemns of your querulous parasol
The godly hands eloquently wove webs with you
until your fulminating repose was a perfect ensnare -
a wreck gnawing on your seams, sifting your dreams
shifting the crooked hands of your maladroit petals
Not now, but little by little, you'll know what I mean
When you catch a glimpse of horror by accident
and your mirrors unveil its light to the effluence
of masquerading faces and words you never knew
The mirrors are muted before your new form
and the light is siphoned by your lamentations
Whilst the phantoms deferred their dissipation
I sing these lamented auguries out of sympathy
and no one is listening but the early dews:
Your destruction cradles a raging tyranny
If I can only convince you to trust me on this
Unmake me a memory, pensive flower
Wither not as you strangle the crumbles of me
with your brambly veins and esoteric maladies
For I have grown abiding to your lingering graze -
A fastidious palette in my lackluster wallflower
poem by Norman Santos
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Damsel Of Snow
A not so subtle enigma walks leisurely
Into the silky phosphor of her skin
Engulfed by the garish gestures of gaiety
And her fragrant vision-stealing scenes
What profound riddle lay buried
In the tinkering of her innocence?
What color gush in the grids
And architecture of her slumbering veins?
The answer resonated in the pulsations
Caught in somnabulism in her neck
Craning over for my desiccation
To fondle mellifluously this wreck
Beneath the blaring pounds of your croon
Is a pristine language of genuine hope
That had traversed with the monsoon
Grazing scars to eloquently festoon
I fancy and trust your gilded heart
For it beats the exotic tempo
Of the heaven's salient art
Purging the cacophony in a glissando
poem by Norman Santos
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Way Down Yonder In New Orleans
Way down yonder in new orleans
In the land of the dreamy scenes
Theres a garden of eden...you know what I mean
Creole babies with flashin eyes
Softly whisper their tender sighs
Then stop....wont you give your lady fair...a little smile
Stop..ya bet your life youll linger there...a little while
Weve got heaven right here on earth
With those beautiful queens
Way down yonder in new...orleans
(instrumental break)
Youre gonna find heaven right here on earth
With all them beautiful queens
Way down yonder in new or.....
I goin down yonder to new orleans
Its way down yonder in new orleans
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Vermillion- Robed Pericarpium!
As dawn’s amber-hush operas, cast orb’s subdued flames over purple hills,
As bejeweled dew’s still visitations, as amethyst- sapphire rays’ part painted canopies,
As defiant anthers spark floral fires, preside over marriage of taping vines,
As stifled water dreams in a rainbow, joins quick –silver rolling streams,
As among ambrosial saffron fruits, tinted birds mutter hosanna, runaway petals sprinkle,
As drawl of indigo skies; primrose west seeks auroral light, fireflies sparkle,
Thus he generously splashes colors, where his silence is still a noise,
To mutely appreciate, not participate, in vermillion –robed pericarpium, await his voice
[12 words=1 versex8]
Seema.joglekar-6thNov-11
poem by Seema joglekar
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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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The Payback
She came with a wound and kindled flame
Her silver eyes brimming sore from restriction,
Her sorry lips cautiously treaded in a ballet
As she spewed the sharpest blades of sabers
Slowly, they lunged at me like the drizzles
Carefully aborted for the final fertilization
Of this barren town of peccadilloes and ghosts
She spoke with the sound of a rainy eve—
Of the most powerful vengeance;
Of the most puissant and malleable force:
A forgiveness that shall humble
The most arrogant and lofty towers
I yearned for the shrilling rapier
Like sequestered starlights
Crawling to the ashen cheeks
Of a lonely waxing moon
And as I bled before her statuesque pose
Her doe eyes rummaged for a patch
That needed to be purged and dabbed
Whilst her eyes wandered yonder
To the sunward slopes of faith
And the cascading sun behind the squall
Before her, I am thickened callus
Putrefied by a thousand caligniosity
The downpour beats its wings harder
And when I begged not to grovel
She set the walls in frenzied flames
Her arson audacity loomed
Amongst the prancing flames
And this was a perfect retribution,
A subtle yet flagrant death
Of a seeded misanthropy
With anvil-weight and a life
A little dandelion-pace late.
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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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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Ouroboros
The snake that coiled asleep
Underneath the misbegotten
Earth unruffled agitated from
The vanguard of its slumber
Because his cold blood
Could never grow colder
And the scorching land
Could never get warmer
And the unselfishness
Could never be selfish
He shed his gossamer
And fragile skin to
Eviscerate the phantoms
Slithering with his dispositions
And super impositions
And then swallowed
The undraped suit
And the night was
A blood lusting
Carnal show
Where you blew the flute
To surrender and
Call it truce
He stuck out his tongue
Forked and rived
And palmed the warmth
Truant in the airwaves
And the arid coldness
Beckon the void chance
Of subsisting yonder
The scorching land
So his blood froze
Congealed with the
Chamber of fire
He held somewhere
In his labyrinthine frame
He developed a fancy
In eating his skin
And soon he shall
Eat his rattling tail
But never would he
Cave out again
To face the devoid
Chance of getting
To where he can live
For himself
And while she gets jealous
And while he gets jealous
He shall crawl away
Far from the dancing flames
Where his skin is charred
Only to molt him
Into nakedness
And leave him there
Eating his lost
And unwanted chances
To settle it fair.
It is an ouroboros
Eternally ensconced
Into the lattices of
The void.
poem by Norman Santos
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Chocolate
Iam in love with chocolate
This rich dark intruder
This demon tantaliser of the tastebud
Its aroma consumes my senses
Its aura dissolves all reason
Its soft delights flirts upon my tongue
Devours me with one bite
And I submit and sink
Within this sepia 'whirpool'
Of epicurean delights!
I am in love with chocolate
I am consumed by my chivalrous 'Dark Knight'
Yvette m smith feb 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Ousted
In this madhouse world
Where the beacons are blind
And the canopies succumb
My eager sprouting vines
I tend to escape away
Engage in a subtle espionage
For the quintessence of life
Does not crawl in the skin
Of this moiré perfection that
Idealism vied to wrought
Under our noses and
Beneath our roof beams.
A tatterdemalion meanderer
Of agog sole and yearning,
A goaded and fragile arsenal
Of words and contours
Slurring in surreal slopes
To defy and to define
My voraciousness for hope
A touch on its sterile skin
Chaste, clean and deceptive—
A blinded scheme of beauty
I am a stain, a blotch of blood
Like a maladroit red pyrotechnic
Scintillating eloquently in
The undulations of the water
So I trampled in a rendezvous
With the stale grandiose of bitterness
Ensconced in the trance and
Inveigles of cheap panaceas
To desperately dab the wounds
Of the flagrant destitution
And to extol the fumes that
Will hide the desiccation
Of an unrequited contending
And no one will have to know
That you are ousted from
The sunset of your own funeral.
Everything shriveled,
Darkened and crunched
And putrefied without
A chance of exoneration
Because I cannot mourn with you
And dissect my lamentations
In your hands, for you have
Superfluous wrists of four
But only a single pulse
That cannot alter the beating
For a klutz waltz of death
If another wrist shall bleed
And the sun went down
Dripping with a red star
Ousted from the sky.
This is how it works;
This is how we'll subsist
When the Gods sequester
The bones and the morsels
From the aptitude of spirit
Ousted from their schemes
Their lives tight-roping seams
To live on without it and in
Solitary confinement.
poem by Norman Santos
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Cradle the Lion's Grave
The meandering Lion, impaired by a trance
Of feral instinct and hedonistic impetus
Torn to avert or succumb his fated tragedy
But only festoons the lion's unwritten fable
Ensconced by the eaves of pure enigma
Slithering the ornate tangling forlorn forest
Whilst the Moon stroke the fiery wisps
Of his cynical golden tresses and bastion
Grazing on his poignancy to submission
And scintillating a cordial theme park
Clandestine with a selfish feisty carnival
From the Lion's lacerations that stalls
Upon the labyrinthine forest's walls.
poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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