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I Am Santo

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Kicking and Screaming

Let’s break what’s cordial,
Snap its little weak neck
And let these wild thoughts
Scream like banshee song
In our rancid, beautiful pulse
That stammers at this view
Like words on the awkward tongue
Of a boy nowhere near manhood.
Don’t it feel polite
To glance away, down, elsewhere?
Cowardice is propriety
In any other place,
But here the yellow up that back
Is pure denial;
An instinct shot fleeing
While the body aches.
Soothe it on this softness,
The spill of curls
And the rise of breaths
Hitching at the dream of strong hand knowledge;
There, let this strap fall,
These fingers play
And the chorus of ardor
Harmonizes in the fresh hues
Of surrender.
Moan and wail,
Trace those magnetic contours
With iron filing will
That knows nothing
Other than how to come.


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