Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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I seen you there. Riding high like an electric wire strung tight between two failing telephone poles. Buzzing high as you was pulled in two by the circumstance of your errant heart, the gravity of life pull, pull, pulling at your prominence and begging you to fizzle and snap short in puddles collecting like dreams from subconscious rains. Oh you was thought about, girl. The gray of these skies breaking apart under your staccato lighting and the long, booming echo of your absense. Caaaaa-racckkkk go the hope of youth, replaced by the propriety and wisdom inherent in these wrinkles and grays lining this here face and hands. But this cock be strong! This will be fierce and these hands ache like they be broken by need to cup the soft curves of your nature. It’s your tune we all hearing! Like a low torch song played in the smokey air of a booze stained night, where the smell of yearning be cheap nicotine and Jack Daniels – an abuse of kind systems looking for the sweet brand of hurt a chanteuse sings about that ain’t controlled; an intimate welcome stormed into with strong fingers gripping at flesh-blessing, sliding into parted lips and finding the salt of longing. Thrust, baby. Fuck, baby. Keep the rhythm of the chaos night and be all churning like Summer arguing with Fall. Part your fineness and show me Heaven, the ambrosial sighs of your hurt a pleasure call for the hardness of lust, any lust, looking to tear off your shock collar and spill sparks into the night like stars falling from the night. It be a dirty job, and I see it clear as sunlight passing through windows in your dawn of regret, morning birds harping at your mistakes and pleading you to get outta that man’s bed. Beautiful mistakes littering your soul like the blooming reds and purples on your hips and neck. Maybe you broke loneliness for a night, but the crackle, thrum and heat of your live wire heart beats on. Luck be catching you barehanded and not thinking any of it matters. (at Let’s)

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