Yellow Haven
I remember the forfeited nights when hunger
Had sent me mangling into fortified walls
Groveling to thaw into the pallid inflection,
Squirming from the scraping inside the chambers
That putrefies the veneer to haplessly reveal
The unwritten words in the wrinkled skin,
Where the poisons crumpled to potions
Picking slivered beads and making a chalcedony
Of pebbles to grind in our running feet;
Turning serpentine vespers into the cinders
Of the day's vigorous fanning of ambiguity;
And ephemeral drizzles engulfed by the wave
Of esoteric perpetuity in a colossus rave;
In spite of the incisive transatlantic distance
Imposed by tacit seclusion and disparity
I found the light show on the ocean floor
Where gods are servile of the fathoms
Placing their languid heads in stone tables
For an immolation to omniscient mortality.
In a cup of golden concord that entangles
Our meta-fictional lives in a conscious strangle:
A highfaluting chaise, for arriving and departing
Impassable planes of plutocracy
To premature decadence that lingers
Into the absence of your sculling chortles
And vivacious silence riveted in the listening floor
As I touch you and feel the seraphs wafting
In your skin and melting crystal castles
And as I part, shoved by the demons
With awry prongs locking in a tale
That not one without a sip of the sharp
Spangling revelries in our fragile cup
Could neither evade nor leave triumphant.
I am one amongst the motions and susurrations,
Stringed in the latticing chances of conclusions,
Assuaging the winds of odyssey, never to bury
The skeletons when time flew like an albatross
Enslaving the sea and nary a home but the sky
Teeming with the liberal sensations to descry
The asphyxiated lungs of lost voices,
And collapsing ribs of lost viscera,
Intertwines the demon's lair into
The ornate heaven for the mortals.
As soon as we touch and spew verve
We lose contact and the valley of death
Yawns wearily to devour the mechanism
[...] Read more
poem by Norman Santos
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