To Live and Not To Breathe
Five arms snooping coyly
At the persiennes of the equipoise
Of the red dying night and vim of dawn
Rapping the emollient shuddering
So everything paces with synergy
And in these times I am most alive
Inside the cloys of avarice and pride
Growing more eyes and superfluous hands
And my tentacles would permit me
To wander far off, maybe too far
That I reach the enemy lines
Ticking the mines, fulminating the wiles
And the expulsion of solitude
Malingers with the billowing dusts
In the silence of the hiatus
I have been to different abodes
Of auspicious filth dangling the throat;
Families masticating endearment
And thawing faces of loathe,
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poem by Norman Santos
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Forlorn Riddles
On a piece of brown paper
The wild zinnia splattered
Among the porcelains and silvers
Like an ankle splintered
Of a once feral danseuse
Now embezzled by age
With the sun conquering west
The paper befallen a cage
Where the dribbled ink blots
Dangled like a hapless bait
And the sun punctures in a blotch
Eroding the scar with the faith
And the myths and the spellbound
That has never been found
On a desiccated ink blot
A grotesque silhouette incarnated
Reeking with a sanguinary plot
Of carnage that had sculpted
The stature a gilded sphinx's repose
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Days of the Sun
A spill of crimson engulfs the lusty fringing line
Whilst cobalt and mauve bicker to intertwine
And saturate in a gelid-steely hue to define
The girth and skin of the poignant horizon
As the gloaming dawn close to topple the occasion
How many colors does the dusk possess?
And why these few tarry on my firmament?
The plethora of sunsets I obstinately watched
Cannot descry what destitution beguiles
So I count and gaze, on an on, without a mind
A phalanx can beckon the exodus in His corolla,
Obstruct the panorama and anticipate the doom
As it esplanade through a month of setting suns
Futilely for the sunrise yonder its tawny cape
That never comes around, never fixes me bound
Of His elegiac maladroit songs by crickets and cicadas
Somnolent brewed to regurgitate the pensive calculations
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poem by Norman Santos
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Cataloguing Nights
Inside an impassable night for a diffident boy;
Juxtaposed the pillar of his bed he coiled
From watching the final grain hastily dissipate
Fore infinity resurged his room, his subterfuge vacate
Vigorously, he confounds with a luxuriant tongue
Painting visions, unknowing his heart was wrung
For he was a boy withholding utopian eyes
Vulnerable from lies and metaphysically cries
With every plot his nights would conspire
He held onto profanity and blindly cross the wire
As prayers depart his sagacious lips
Departing to escape and stain like thieves
With lethargic eyes he would acquaint to rile
Inside a night of feigned lies and sedative denials.
Inside another eve for a reticent boy;
He perched on the hourglass, his soul was cloyed
As he lit a cigarette and taught himself to smoke
And hoped that the rings would seize the thoughts to choke
So the ethereal train would leave his downtrodden bed
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Great Wide Open
Reconnoitering the abysmal depth in the tranquil resurging
My dithering thoughts are dewdrops of glacial waters
That I cannot fathom to feed the famished ocean
But as they plummet down the mirror of the firmament,
A collective of placid hands that failed in the brunt
Of reaching and collecting the constellations, coiled
Sapped out of life, palming the high and angry surf
That revealed itself like twenty thousand buckling pearls
Steered brazenly like galloping mad stallions
And the inclement wind fecundates the welling call
The immense pacific hauled a sliver with every wave
And every ebb, and every saline rippling I am beckoned
With anarchical power glinting in its azure tiara
But the least I drown in this turbulent musing
The greater uproar welled through my throat
Where the heart was wedged from disengaging
And taut from screaming inadequate directions
Etched in its forlorn maps and spoken by its compasses
Through and through, the immense pacific calls
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Moonless Timelessness Of Yalda
The rustles of the rainy dawn frightens the bowing trees
And the stammering lances shear the curtains of somnolence
The sun was ousted from the smeared clouds along with all
The morning songs of the canaries and the gaunt earth regressed
Underneath the mellifluous whispers of the smoky blanket
The devious swaying of the pendulum staggered for symmetry
With its wavering subdued and unnoticed, it found its poise
In a vertical divide it lay asleep, and time was suddenly mine
A riddle hoisted in a queen's repose at the notch of my head
Pulling strings and knotting gnarled quiescence, of suddenly
The time I owned owned me in her nonexistence, and the equinox
Remained elusive to the treacherous moonless and pouring sky
Its enthralling spell beckoned a metallic silence and the absence
Of the thousand points that drifts to collect the quintessence
Of this perforated globe, and with all these reasons and unreasoning
Sank into the pits of evanescence; I came to face a different face of the day -
An endless night devoid of time, wearing a filigree of arctic sighs - a yalda
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poem by Norman Santos
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Tails of Bliss
The truculent sensation of auspicious sedation in a puncturing thrill
Is as evasive as the clear vesper skies flooded with constellations
Bliss, I calculate like the fragment of aeons spewed by the clock
With hands dancing into the euphonious crooning of decadence;
Bliss, I forfeit to fringe you esoteric definition in a mooring point
But I wish to enter your anteroom and never leave, anchored in your skin,
And when I climb and crawl in the craters and crevasses you hollowed in
Your plasmatic visage my flimsy hands and mind still can never grasp
Who you are; Are you the same for everyone? How do I claim you
And fill the depression in your mattress? Or do you claim me and shatter
The impassable ashen moonbeam of my every night? If then, come, now.
In the awning of this protracted wondering nurtured by the city's malingering,
I wonder if I will ever touch you, the wisp of your tail that had grazed me once
The whiff that was not recounted by any noble man, the pleasure that had
Established a sagacious demand for cynicism's arduous flagrance,
In the patina of bleeding pain I tasted of your poison making me grovel
For the oblivious thrill, the ecstatic bereavement of feel, the orgasmic static in the ears,
In this world of blind alleys where death walks with garrulous snores of the shadows
I yearned for your faceless name, futilely aborting the lies riveted in hoping.
The harsh gale of levanter had whispered a clout in my ears; a clandestine item
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poem by Norman Santos
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He and She
At this night where the year leaps and delves
A superfluous hurdle it was for He and She
As they lay in the bed of grass endlessly
Brushed by different weathers,
Of different shades, even different skies
Weaving a supple ball of yarn
From photographs and tumbled words
Embedded among the lurid constellation of stars
He, a penetrable glass resonating
The howling shrills of the wrinkling
Of the looming pillars when they trample,
Soused his head in a delusion-soiree
Ashen as the moon's tawny smears
Hidden in its harlequin beam
Similar to the one he enamels
The sooty façade of his fathoms
He, had wandered haplessly astray
In a highway succumb by oblivion
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Lion of the Dawn
The sun sliced through the ample sighs
Of the foggy dawn and grazed
The inert life in each
Quiescent leaves
Of the forest's canopy.
The world was a burning orb
In the misty horizon
Of its arid skin.
Every fraction started
Rousing into life,
From the blossoming buds
Of the wild bougainvilleas,
The elucidation of
The forest floor clad in moss,
The subtle tremble
In the boughs
Of the yawning tress,
The lifting waves
Of the hampered grass,
The fading of
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poem by Norman Santos
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Iron Eyes
Divulge yourself in my language
Speak of forked tongues that can masticate
Imagery with psychedelic blades
And swallow these swords so you can tell me
That I have eyes of iron
That I am blind but I can pretend to believe
That I can perceive in full colors
From sapphire, to eau-du-nil, to claret
And if you are malleable enough
To sink in my impermeability
And nibble on my waxing vision
Then I will permit you, in my elbow to my anteroom
Suffice enough to fracture my vision
And enrapture my eyes of iron
My eyes that can decipher decoys
My vision that can perforate veils and halos
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poem by Norman Santos
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