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Norman Santos

(Nov.19,1990 / Philippines)

Lambasted Deferral Of My Puissant Muse


In this world of odes
Every whisper is a trap
Rummaging for preys
A lascivious answer
Where hunger feeds on
Another a hunger;
An ouroboros inscribed
Without a concatenation
To fill in the famished lapses

In this clandestine world
A flaccid orb of gas
From the cigarette parting
Your thin veneered lips
And streams from gutters
Of your slicing eyes,
The land, fertile for the dead,
In your taut skin of white
The odes, traipsed in
The wrinkles nonexistent to the eye
But felt through the coarse
Beat of the dogtrotted hearts

This world ornately meshed
Into the pentagrams of your
Enchanting spells, I flounced
To find a looming pantheon
Of serpents eluded by
The prattling of their own tails
They succumb themselves
Drawing a circlet of scales
And I was the panther
Musing the surrealism
Of your riddles
With a forked tongue
Comanded by its musing

In this world of putrefaction
To vie for life, your own or not,
You are the venom moseying
The sinewy veins in my wrists
I'd rather die than bleed
You out, for that life
Is rather long asleep
The pain of your efflorescence
Is the beckon of life.
Puncturing the slumbering culprits
To stir in their haitus
To obfuscate the clout
And reveal the remedy ebbing
Into the very poison

If this world is a sole cellar
Residing in those cold tears
Guttering flagrantly yet subtly
In the circles of your palms
Then must I submit and efface
The quintessence of self?
In a harried vie, where I
Only reap vaporous clouds
When I disembogued the home in my land
To eat the fire of your skies

In this world, you are:
The home I pawned for,
The sun I dare swallow
To be a suffice source of warmth
And vexation— a mooring banister
Whenever you trample,
The harlot of the art
In severing lies and
Risque vulnerability
And I am but
Another agog dancer
In the heraldry
Of your wobbling saunters.

Submitted: Sunday, March 04, 2012
Edited: Saturday, June 16, 2012

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