Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Cheap filth and the traded asphalt guilt of another daft claim, a swung loose spill of avarice masquerading as virtue. Deep lying. Somewhere there’s a phantom keeping track, long fingers pinching a piece of brittle bone and marking slates with each unkindness, those blistering infernos famished and taunted like starved dogs chained inches from a cruelly stocked feast, their teeth snapping and cries echoing long into the waking hours with night terror tenacity. Oh, they will remember, each one rolled and fucked, pushed with winsome guile and the smooth lacquer of yearning coating every pore, encasing them in amber coffins and eulogizing whatever reluctance was fitfully proffered. Of oceans and night skies and spinning and dizzying depths; such brazen grips strangling nature, miracles squeezed from clenched fists like loose sand falling uselessly into the ocean where they plume in clouds, then vanish, a passive detritus like cold kisses on warm skin. Let this path dry, the salt of lips and resolve teasing flesh like October sea breeze. And as skin recoils, the heart too must find somewhere to hide, a wise tortoise withdrawn into the cracked shell of intuition. Blessed strong will! May fires consume such imperious welcome and that easy sick grin crumble like chilled mantle caught raging against the sea; the disease of temptation steaming high into a doubting sky where it vanishes, innoculated. Take that long, dusty crime of industry home and leave behind stains of rubber, grit and weakness. The faithless feed on it greedily, teeth gnashing and tearing the empty rush of yes, now, let’s. Noted, the famine-struck wretch limps on awaiting Dante’s next circle, each time believing an open door will lessen the searing loss of integrity, but again flayed by hope and left too scarred to keep stepping further into new Hells.


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