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To Those Dames with Crimson Eyes

I can reckon with the lucidity
Of the tranquil motions of the floor
Those farfetched nights sent to
The scrapings of the harried memory
Your skins, glistening from the blur,
Staggering through a solid corner
Like the stars settled in the firmament
Concealing its desire to fall
Betrothed to the potions of alcohol;
Your eyes, all six of them,
Crossed mine from the jovial turbulence
And I thought, from behind my telescope,
That a soul met another soul;
I permitted my lips to droop with my eyes
Macadamized with iron slyness
Averting the crimson redolence
That beckons a skirmish of the heart
A blitzkrieg of blind shots,
From blatant courteous unwritten words
To long small jeremiad of the silence
Buried in the sighs and diffidence,
To hot grazes boiling the blood vessels
Then the soul intertwined once more
In the crimson gases of the turfs
When you caressed my hair
And have my soul surrender
Exploiting its secrets and laments
Spoken in inebriated language
Of undulating bodies and ruffling sheets,
Jabbing open wounds and scraping skins
That faded in a silent scream.

And now, I aimlessly wonder
What those crimson eyes envisaged
Ignited by toxic lemonades
And serrations of aberrations
To provoke a lackluster man
To pour out the enzymes
Of the insentient soul
Sulking in the jagged corner
With feigned exuberance
And smiles castrated by
Cigarette kisses, hissing with
And enigmatic silence.

I wonder about your names
But I might have sent them
Far in the fathoms of Alaskan graves
Or maybe I forgot to ask them
For the soul was a gypsy
Meandering aimlessly with legs
Slathered by sedative bliss
Pawned for all famished nights
Of wailing bleak howls
But I failed to keep them
For the chemicals in your bloods
Was effortlessly devoured
By hedonistic blarneys
Yet, in these times of abandon
I wonder about you
Longing for answers,
Wanting requisitions;
What does this ugly vessel posses
To be invited in your boudoir
And swallow the phantom swords
With a wry of a smile
Crossing the darkness
As the scant strokes of my silhouette
Leave the fine svelte fringe
With no intention of returning?

My apologies for this comedy,
But it was a good drag
Not in the flesh,
The thighs,
Or the crotch,
But in the wisps
Of the unwanted soul;
The very quintessence
Of being accepted.

poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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