Zealous Friends, Jealous Lovers, Two-faced Waves
Charlie, with a hathful of gratitude;
Underneath a sundered lamppost that digresses
The fiendish simper of the harlequin moon and
Behind the dazing screen of the frothing smoke
You spewed so violently, with angst and misery,
You said, inebriated by the blood of a destitute heart
And the spell of attention and camaraderie
That you will never allow losing my place—
A wafer of a turret—regardless who she will be;
A maiden of unabashed promises—you alleged
Behind the foggy breath of capitulated death
That was so much invigorating, that I was one
Of your favorite gambling cards, and one victory
From your endless brunt and grueling struggles
So I held you tight, rived in a scorching paper cut
Post Script, and a long denied demise;
Where have you gone? But worry not
I can smell the most robust verdure
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poem by Norman Santos
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Tale Of An Alley Cat
There are effectuating things in the world
That makes you want to reside forever
Inside a conch shell's emollient whisper
Like the collision of acquiesced stares,
Or a bathe in her cold residing sweat
Or in a fountain of warm promises,
Or the memory of your fingers tinkering
With the resonance of wind chimes
As it desired to be entangled with a clandestine
Console bigger than the big screen
Until, the world topples into latticing alleys
And in every atrium of the heart
These lovely things encumbers the blood
And mold into loathsome reminiscences
And terrorizing acquaintances
For an astray alley cat.
Now the moon hung by a taut noose
And the stars shiver with decadence
I take its toll, pummeled by emblematic senescence
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poem by Norman Santos
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Amongst Foxes
Take me on a banquet table
With seats engaged by five people
Or three with superfluous orifices
And vindictive but superficial visions
Such obsequious fanatics, such prissy sticklers,
Such laggard cajolers of idiotic beliefs
Worse, no fancies or beliefs at all
Take me unto this vulpine table
And I might as well abscond my supper
And gnaw upon reticence and the taciturn
Reservations, for in notching the hinges
Of my mouth may expose the famished gulch
Inside the fractures of the skinned skeleton
Or worst, display the daunting jagged fangs
That gyrates and scintillates from friction
From riling the presence of each other
Because in the deep alleys of my soul
I might be one of the hoodwinked monsters
In cordial suppers, elegiac malls, or crowded rooms,
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poem by Norman Santos
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A Perfect Day To Sail
Autumn hovered above the maladroit clouds
To descry our sanctum and astray meanders
And She shuddered, sprinkling a daze of gold
And sifted the ashes and bones of our deaths
In the sieves of Her trident are the remnants
Where my soul remained haplessly enthralled
And we watched it wan and die in a murder:
An auspicious castration of the gray curtains
In your resilient grin it flaunts a descant of scenes-
A bipolar thrill cleaves in me, a timorous ecstasy:
Eccentric and riveting, undulating and banefully riving.
The ghastly gossamer blooms saliently in the mire
Like a trickle of blood blossoming in the silver lake,
The ruse of vicissitude obfuscates a brand new shade
And the excoriation tautly smothers my inside
Drowning the myriad collections of pilfered sighs
But your picture was a pristine escalation, a stupor
Of purged exoneration, I loosen my heaving breath
Unlatched my tacit eyes to resign my contending
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poem by Norman Santos
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Loath and Fear
If I would rely on phrenology,
Or science, or mythology,
I'd burn down this damned city
And disembark in a conclusion
Of the ugly veracity:
I loathe everything!
I fear everything!
I loathe that I am writing about loathing
And I fear that I might lose every one
Though I barely have anyone,
So I loathe even more on this fear.
I loathe that I write about myself all the time, and
I fear that I might not be writing at all
I loathe that I would narrate a story
In the surreal slopes of enigma, and
I fear, afterwards, that no one will pry
To understand or even console.
I loathe that my mouth cannot mouth
What my hands opted to write, and
I fear that my hands aren't equipped
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Lion of the Dusk
The flourished crimson heaven
That had been mantling the meagerness
Of the famished world
Slowly escaped in seething hisses.
Every layer of faint illumination
That dissipates is refilled
By a jet black cloak.
The cicadas and the crickets
Seemed to enjoy the sublimation
And started on a
Strident carousal,
The soaring birds sang
Their swansong as
They heaved the thinning air
To ferry their plumage home,
The dog-tired grass
Halted from beating the blows
Of the southern winds,
The wind dragged deeper
From the clandestine place
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poem by Norman Santos
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