Titillate The Asylum
A slow waltz of klutz feet
Stalled in the gray floor
And jaded walls, interpolating
Raddled frantic words
Siphoning the senses
Like a sapped blood
From a pierced neck
Encumbering the souls
To sleep, to rest,
But the fatigue can
Not be quelled
Bolted inside the corolla
Of petals cloaked with enigma
Butterflies shall attend to you
Gorge your skepticism
With their virulent dusts
And you will be inveigled
To sedate the blossoming
Until the petals are toppling
From the lambent withering
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poem by Norman Santos
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Molting From The Flames
Trotting the sandy-hair of mazy maps
With ambivalence hoisted drearily
Into the wanton contours of flaccidly
Wavering irk of my shoulders, singeing
I succumb the obstinate weather
Where fireballs scintillate like doves
And shrills utter of profane debauchery
Dwindling in the lapses of the sine
The fences of three-legged sways espied
Superfluous trample and scars to pawn
Hang adroitly like wind chimes to reckon
I wallow to descry a pint of profanity
Augmented with the strings of vanity
Of sacred parodies, laced not of quandaries
And voraciousness bloats my belly
Burning an ulcer to destruct the veil
Intricately filleting the prostrate grin
Painted for the diurnal holiday spinning
Like a Ferriswheel of throbbing gears
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poem by Norman Santos
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Darrel
On his shoulder
are the weight of his struggles,
his prostrate grief,
and esoteric quintessence;
the impending doom
that defeat riveted
On his hands
are burns from cigarettes,
an empty bottle
and everything else
lifeless and afraid
On his eyes
are shut persiennes
veiling the shadows that
love has casted
and its silver web
of emptiness
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Chased
The road slithered like a forked tongue
Fueled by loathe and love unabashedly
The gust blew eternally to wallow dusts
That sleeps soundly and invited subtly
Like a red lasso in this dark limbo
So I succumb into it; I am ephemeral!
I chase the incisive gliding of the sun
And mangled through the unbreakable darkness
But it is I who shatter and tear in the impasse
Floundering without directions in a sea
Where the lost musing was devoured
And for all the reasoning and unreasoning
The relentless and callow machinations
That built a life of daunted convictions
And mundane propositions, corrupted
What grounds have you not altered
With your pliant hands? What road is left
Untouched by the sap of hope, of life?
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poem by Norman Santos
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Verisimilitude of Grandiose II: The Fiesta
Unlatch the porticos of this colossal wardrobe
Titivated with banderitas and foxtrot musicales
And you shall find the serpentine-reposed bedlam
Hissing in the cacophony of a grandiose festival
Where everyone gorge upon the guilty pleasure
Of watching a picador ignite the wick of a skirmish
Brawl with the raging prongs of an uncouth bull
And their eyes flutter with the palming sway of the cloth
Painted in the incinerating passion of blood thirst
And the echoing roars of their squalid orifices
That is either hungry for a sloppy tongue sex
Or for a cigarillo, or a rum, or a chance
To spill out the teeming chutzpa and arrogance;
Unsheathes an impaling impetus to the picador
With his heart bursting on the creases of the seams.
Definitely, he is the idée fixe of the festivity
But the pantomimic cries of the spectators
Are not for the invigoration of the valiant exhibition
But for whetting the bull's smoldering horns
And for hasting the coiling death of the picador.
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poem by Norman Santos
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To Plant A Seed
Like the enigmas woven upon
the regal tapestry of dreams
we instill niceties into
the desperate and famished earth
razing our own barricades
and knotting golden tethers
upon the forests that we make
And nights will perch upon
the lovely slender boughs
And days will park on its eaves
filleting the lofty fences
veins crawling, sprawling
unto the cradle of distant stars
and their scintillating talks
while the grandiose inculcate
a flummoxed aeon down
into the heart of a dead star
But we forget them
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poem by Norman Santos
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Walking with a Giant
The zephyr trifled
With your redolence
And my infinitesimal breathing
Was engulfed, vandalized
And my sparse quintessence
Was out shadowed
Yet I mount my leg heavily
To walk with a giant.
To prey for life with you
Is life itself
For you had spared a place;
A seat in the banquet,
A warm spot in the hearth,
But to meander with you
And your titan pace
And to watch you advance
To the sun's fiery corona
Is to watch these places
Reduce into cinders:
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poem by Norman Santos
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Behind Your Calculations
Your svelte hands
zithers the abacus
that calculates
your reluctant fandango
like how it played
the harp
in the nights
where the pebbles
are sharp jewels
And the dexterity
of your tumbling specks
of gaiety
is a regal piece
of oblivion
Your summer sky
hailed a silver gilt
in somersaulting rifts
of the sun's corolla
And underneath
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poem by Norman Santos
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Coding the Lion Man
A Goddess she was, skirting the town with her presence
Her lunatic glow clearly forebodes beams of liberation
An opaque light: a stark sublimation of sterile illumination
It struck his thin fringes as he had clandestinely wished
Dissipating the toll of encumbrance and repugnance
Of his crumbling faith like toppled columns of Churches
And of the squalid pseudo-bliss in the kneeling hypocrites
Trampling the cramped den, revealing a hungry and weary Lion
A potent behemoth ironically clad with superficiality and blatancy
Was unshackled from reality and divorced with rationality
A castration that paved way to a superior transcendence
Elation spoused with a non-carnal impetus, a widow of lust
Her presence sinks into his impermeable but lithe skin
A skin akin to the harlequins, he loathes with the indignation
She's a drug infesting fertile grounds, digging giant craters
Boring a basin of colossal rivers that runs beneath his skin
He opened his eyes to find himself parked in an ornate forest
The smell of almond, the scent of summer and the icy wind
An ominous pair in an innocuous night, he hoped for the best
Before he knew, he was in an arcane frenzy, a sublime hedonism
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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,
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poem by Norman Santos
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