From this bloating hoary disk <br />I shall bicker to envisage <br />A new moon guffawing <br />In its emollient ashen fringe <br />To exhume myself from oppression <br />Of self-induced agonizing subterfuge <br />Fondly nibbling with the luminaries <br />On the girdle of veracity <br />Inch by inch, I'm drawing closer <br />To the lunatic spell of the old moon <br />Marred by its penumbra <br />I sliced myself to grate the wounds <br />To open and deluge with pain <br />For pain is for the living <br />Condensing these oxymoronic ideals <br />I shall efface the man inside <br />And bargain for a travesty in a chortle; <br />A superficial veneer: a new moon. <br />And when the wolves howl tonight, <br />In their carnal carousals <br />And the owls hoot along, <br />From their voyeuristic revelries <br />I will sing along like a vulture <br />For them to find and muse me <br />As I paint the opiate panorama <br />With a perilous terminal death <br />Inside a dire scuffling <br />Against my archenemy; <br />The undertow of wisdom, <br />The tirade of freedom: <br />Bigoted veracity, <br />Dangling on a new moon.<br /><br />Norman Santos<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/terminal-new-moon/
