Behind The Machine Gun
There are nights spoiled
like women dancing with macabre,
men praying in pub houses
both soaked in the belly
of licorice and blood-colored
soldering of chemical spirits,
like children sleeplessly lying
in beds without bedtime stories;
parents making out with whores
in a nameless stag diner,
like these moths suspended
in my cobwebbed chandeliers
These somber nights would
sometime trample in the crevasses
of my womanless bed
crying a song to my spine
and clinging to the crowfeet
juxtaposed my cellar eyes
and what I would do is:
connive with the varmints
and try not to hide the sordid
and vile words rummaging my guts
What I'd do is:
I'd open the shutters and welcome
the machinations of the night -
The still vehicles, the sensual hounds,
the morose streetlamps
trying to crawl the lissome,
svelte, undulating electric lines
I'd steal a cigarette stick and light
to let the incorporeal hands
probe inside my ribcage,
touch the collapsing tubes
close enough to the intimacy
of the mechanical blood valves
And when I realize with
everything in line for the sepulcher
I would sit behind my machine
fire the tacit shotgun and allow
the disturbed sparrows to become
my terse alphabets and that
is how I come with poetry -
as the squalor in mollusk sex
the muse is dead like the story
of an effaced morning glory
Isn't it wretched?
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
