Norman F. Santos

Rookie - 497 Points (Nov.19,1990 / Philippines)

Amongst Foxes - Poem by Norman F. Santos

Take me on a banquet table
With seats engaged by five people
Or three with superfluous orifices
And vindictive but superficial visions
Such obsequious fanatics, such prissy sticklers,
Such laggard cajolers of idiotic beliefs
Worse, no fancies or beliefs at all
Take me unto this vulpine table
And I might as well abscond my supper
And gnaw upon reticence and the taciturn
Reservations, for in notching the hinges
Of my mouth may expose the famished gulch
Inside the fractures of the skinned skeleton
Or worst, display the daunting jagged fangs
That gyrates and scintillates from friction
From riling the presence of each other
Because in the deep alleys of my soul
I might be one of the hoodwinked monsters

In cordial suppers, elegiac malls, or crowded rooms,
In corridors where people saunter
Like lewd hounds, like stray cats,
In the abundance of roaches and mice
In pairs swooned in love or in despair,
Or even one on one, tooth on tooth,
There is a madness hulking on the viscera
And they are all instigated by the same paranoia
That we have in alluring festivities in banquets,
In riling the reflection of a beguiling fox
We fleetingly saw as we walk in a mirror house
Distorting our visage and vision and filtering
Our bloods to reduce that we are all famished
With different hungers and carnal seeking
But the same scheming and volitions
To puncture the walls sundering us
From our very own dinner tables
And so we dwell amongst the foxes

Amongst foxes, you cannot be a sparrow
And fly relentlessly with the innocuous trance
You find in the affable tackles of the climate,
Nor can you be the lion that you are
For you will beckon an unwelcomed signal fire
From the pregnant belly of a burning forest
You cannot be anyone else,
But the fox that you are not
And you cannot be yourself
But inside the cloisters of your cave
Amongst foxes, you have to play fox
And from the stench of their dwellings
You have to educe a frivolous park
And perhaps, struggling isn’t apt
For the more we fight the demons of fate
The more we loosen our ends and swagger in blithe
And, inexorably, start to become one of them
The demons that you eschew in the mirror house
.
There is no death that can surmount
The bereavement in squandering yourself away
And become a faceless name, or a nameless face
Or the echoing wails of a voiceless shame;
Dead amongst the world of the living
Especially when you are amidst the prancing
And cunning melee of the foxes’ stares
But then again, why dwell in a crowd
Of these carousing sleazy perfidious rogues
Who would not hesitate to filch
What you have and who you are?
And who would never understand
Why you don a fox’s risqué guise
And loathe the approaching pangs
Of slowly becoming one, and still opt
To die while trying to conquer death
Amongst the foxes, the injuries are not evident
So you sully in an indiscernible fissure of your soul

We can never have espy the elusive answers
For before we comprehend the queries
They were already feasted by the agile beasts
But amidst the inebriations we hope to find
One dissimilar; shrewd and coy fox
Or perhaps a soul withholding similar scars
And humble conceits, and tail, and tales,
One who isn’t very different from what you are
In the same veneer but still:
A prey under the steam of the foxes
And perhaps there is one soul
One who would not eat your tail in your slumber
And one who wouldn’t define you
For what you have and have not
But give you a definition
Whilst you hunt amongst the foxes
And prowl a jeremiad in duet
Sewing tales that never meant anything to any fox

Topic(s) of this poem: loneliness, poetry


Poet's Notes about The Poem

Circa December 2011 - Experimental poetry

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Poem Submitted: Friday, December 11, 2015



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