I Will Sing With the Vultures

Perched upon the laggard headboard
Of the hostility in my brambly bed
With faint burns of my cigarettes
I had transformed into a vulturine—
Man in a bleak duty of scavenging
And this is not another incarnation
For my iron eyes divulged that
I had never been the meandering lion
And I do not only fritter to efface
These inveigling hatful of hope
But I had immolated my forlorn self
And give up my struggling to fit
In a caravansary of jocund fiesta-people
And regurgitate the impetus of solitude
Its ephemeral effect had its adverse
Consequence that is stronger
And that is that loneliness
Is but loneliness
And in this puzzle my sole compartment
Is a mausoleum upon my astray bed

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poem by Norman Santos
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Connoisseur Phony

The raging timetable demands
his clockwork lungs to edges
and like the sun he rises maladroitly
only to lay back on his bassinet
relentlessly unbeknownst

Amidst the surfeit of innuendos
the mad shuffling provokes
and corrupts his innocuous eyes
Now he sees everything upside down
in a vertiginous kaleidoscope
where colors lost its quintessence

Hands swaying like dissonant pendulums,
heavy nimbuses upon his eyes
the torrent storm rams inside
Larcenous feet gliding downhill,
sutured chest unweaving every wink,
and like the path he dares to tread
his tongue is forked into two

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poem by Norman Santos
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The Making of a Prince III: A Star Knew My Name

In the taut sky for circumnavigation
Distracted by a harlequin moon
Her abode was ensconced and shivers
By the thorny lights it produce
A yellow coruscation,
A livid fornication
Of rapture and desolation

The nights owns her
And her lubricious light
But she didn't know how
To emancipate herself
From the strangulations
Of her tethering flaws
If only she knew, if only she knew
How bright she was
Because of her struggles

I spoke to her like a dozing child
When I left the King

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poem by Norman Santos
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Endless Waltz

A gravid somnolence
From a constant defeat
And consistent deaths
That never really ends
Encumbers my gusto
For a waltz and its scherzo
And sit in the benches
Among the shadows
Of desolated nights

The weight of the mortified suit
And its eroding pallor
That I wore to ignite
My mechanical heels for waltz
And now I don for my funeral
In this denied living;
Took its toll
And brought me down
To the very film of my knees
And the bones kissed

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poem by Norman Santos
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To Write On Her Arms I

A predicament, in grills
Pirouetting in a prancing vinyl
Groping inside a rupture
Fractured cranium
Why do nebulas perish me?

Swords and dagger shall clatter
By the blind corner
Of your eyelids
Where were the compasses
That drove me here?

A song for the dinghy
Chaffing the periphery
Azure fluid lands of blades
Abort the sequence, or not
Why am I here and not here at all?

Faithful words shivering
Veils and nail polishes

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poem by Norman Santos
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Obstinacy and Malcontent

Livid and delusional,
Haplessly obdurate,
Like these smoke and mirrors
Distorting the visage of hope
And faith in prayers sent forth
Whilst the coruscations of the past
Inveigles the doom in these eyes
And I exhumed myself alone
In declining my liberation

This obstinacy and malcontent
Deluges with the brine of blood
From angry vessels rooted
And gnarled in the dark corners
Of the cobwebbed heart
Because in this pawned life
Where satisfaction is a drug
To forget the querulous vertex
(To be complete not only in the dark)
The coup-de-grace was a dejection

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poem by Norman Santos
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Paper Plane For The Jealous Lover

If I can ride the cardboard box again
Like a spurious old red Volkswagen
Reckoning when I was child escaping the interstate
Of the buoyed city in my bed that undulates
I would bloat my bag with your photographs
And jarred lucid intervals in case of an arbitrary lapse
And I will probe to find a hill beneath a cliff
Sequestered from the alluring and flagging whiff
Of a blossoming summer, from there I'll built a hovel
Tilling my vault, truncating my veins, come and drag a shovel!
I'll build the porticos with your lacquer portraits
And in the night it will be a lighthouse to coruscate
Vivid flashbacks from the marred malaise
And toil to build an incendiary garden of fireflies
Because they remind me of the lackluster star lights
That had concatenated and knotted our eyes
And our souls; my own, still asphyxiating in your ties
And when the lustrous pangs of compulsion strikes
Like a thief in the silent night, oh, salient jealousy hikes
My barricades, then I shall build myself a paper plane

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poem by Norman Santos
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Evocative Wings

My words lay asleep
in the luminous quartz
with your phosphorescent
and pliant burl of chains
as I reckon your picaresque tales
and how it overlapped
my taut and tedious
windows and persiennes
and its ruminating
choreography

Because in these nights
when the wanton wind
fails to fan
the stars' white flame
I reckon how
our immense skies
wore different shades

And the countless miles

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poem by Norman Santos
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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

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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

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poem by Norman Santos
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