The Beau's Hunting
The sun seared the fine fringes
Of their shadows, a smoke transpired
They were burning an inferno
To thaw the thinning ice below
The swaying of their wobbly soles
The frost bit and sense was bereaved
Behind the intoxicated blear
They fell, but to where?
In the carnage of ephemeral Sundays?
Or in the concealed demons to lambaste?
Should I alert the armory?
Or should I pry harder?
Into the nights of the hunters
And learn the hunger game they play
And eloquently morph into an answer
For holes and questions
In the chest of veracity.
poem by Norman Santos
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C'mere
I tingle your perception
with an erotic tongue
dangling like the hand
of a dying man
Whisk the tea-rose fume
and reel from the risqué smoke
unfurl the carnal pangs
and fondle the insides
Everything is here
my diminutive stars,
my far-fetched sighs,
even the gloamings
that erupted from my sky
And the white page
is a mother's milk
feeding the oppression
into the dying pyre
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poem by Norman Santos
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To Blame The Air
This air does not only hold your fragrance
That I dangerously yearn for, like a candle light
In this pool of kerosene I soused my heart
It holds the petrichor, the semicide breaths,
A faint streak of puissant hope,
A sanguinary stench of a fray,
Tobacco scents and licorice,
A cry of war, a song of plea,
A hefty drapery of confusion;
For now I suck on these withered buds
Fixing a daunted lion poise
And breathing the oppressed air
To live in deaths, until
The atmosphere can cradle
The resurrection of what was
Blaming a shapeless enemy.
poem by Norman Santos
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Hostel
I rang the bell…
Impatient and dour
From the stride
In the drunken alleys
Deluged by the moon
Searching for a place,
A stale room
Inept and incomparable
To the grandest places
Stashed in the foliage
Of sunken pockets
Of gnarled hallways
A place
Where I am found
Welcomed
Nursed
Injected with fire
Bloated and ballooned
To take flight
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poem by Norman Santos
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Audience
Hello Stranger,
Which seat did you take?
My feet dawdle by the parquetry
My knees squirm in a rattle
As I inquired for vigor
Amidst the unvoiced languor
In your sincerity
And the spectral company
That moored my anticipation
And dragged me to this stage.
In row, in line
I cowered and sighed
As I pensively scanned
An emptied theater
Yet, I carried on
Reciting another poem:
"Hello Stranger,
I knew you won't be here
But I ensued anyway,
Head above water,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Woes Versus Rues II
One on one, against and with each other
What's a bottle of alcohol?
"Brothers are bound to each other…"
I listened carefully, the smoke lifting
"Because they are bound by blood, "
I listened carefully, remembering everything
"tethered by compulsory empathy."
I listened carefully, the whiskey sweating
"I do not want that..."
I listened carefully, the sweat soldering down
"I want to be your comrade."
I listened carefully, the echoes rupturing painfully
I have never asked:
"What is a comrade? "
poem by Norman Santos
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Almost Heartless
The paper is incarcerated
In the redolence of tobacco
Yet, I brave the spangling wine
Running down the temples
To pull a marionette
Inebriated by the bedlam
Shackled in these pillars
Of security where I curl up
Like a marred moth
And lazily putrefy,
Haplessly flapping wings,
Ripping the gilded strings
And becoming a garden
For perfidious butterflies
And I vied, tried, groveled
Swallowing the soldering pride
Dispensing the heart
And claiming the magnitude
Of this quake, of a mistake
A heart breaks,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Jailhouse Perdition
The sun lingers away
from the sieves of your cellar
and every shadow shunned
the howls inside your cave
The echolalia of your heart
draped in surfeit agony
daunting the leonine waves
reaching your flimsy shores
You wrote forlorn telegrams
on your sooty walls
and kept on reminding yourself
how it feels to be abandoned
You confabulated with the ceiling,
traipsed and haggled with the floor,
but you never sought for the keys
to break your incarceration
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poem by Norman Santos
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Cold and Lazy Guns
Reloading empty clips
To these cold and lazy guns
Glistening in their lips
A shabby maladroit trance
Locking the crosshairs
Likes ropes to throttle
But every time, you'll move the chair
And leave me dangling by the carousel
Two cold lazy guns
Two hasty angry bullets
One last futile chance
I fumble as you pirouette
When I pull the trigger
With vitriol from your words of faith
And we shook the hands of the harbinger
And I would find out too late
That there is but one lazy gun
Stern with a deluded mission
And one cold solitary man
Flimsy with fantasies in erosion.
poem by Norman Santos
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Cradle of Deceit
Pacing down a string of deceit
Strings that conceal attachments
I wonder how tangled I weave
Sunken deep in this resentment
Live here but do not breathe
Walk in legs superfluous
Despair is beneath your feet
Edified with unceasing bruise
A lucid jagged thread
A cage without walls or rails
Echoes of things said
Bellow with the drunken wails
Haunting in this spaces, the past
To fall back in skulking darkness
Is to fall in void so vast
Vast linkage of madness
Proportions and distortions
Fraudulent web of spider
Architectural perfection
A trap. A home for slaughter.
poem by Norman Santos
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