Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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My rage is a Hellfire won. It’s prophylactic temerity. Taste this seed where the yawn and ache demand. Be here in the presense of a thousand years of stammering bliss. What the evidence portrays again and again with reckless disregard is that this never mattered; that each and every uttered word, committed action and kindness offered was a snowflake melted on an upturned hand; incidental and insignificant. Enjoy the latest snowfall. Let those lovely shapes disintegrate in your alleged warmth that hides such sanctimonious greed and oh how hate urges to devour your liver, your kidneys, your heart. Oh how these teeth bared grind against each other like knives on the sharpening stone; just die. Go far away into the abyss of memorials, I have nothing left for you, your taste or your anguished fuckery that clicks and clacks like stilettos along the long, empty corridor of promise. What degrading mirages we strived for. Such horrific heat ripples on the forever sands reaching into failed forever. The greatest trick of love is that it meant something at all. Like an eclipse bathing the world in dull amber or a funeral shawl drawn over pulled shut eyelids, everything is transition, a darkness that too will abandon to greater forces of Science or God, some fictions spilled like carelessly poured whisky that burns like your craven blush of affection. The only truth is death, each flickering second a footstep toward the absence of breath, of faith, of love. May it eat me alive and spit out these tinder bones for the fallen’s inferno. Like you did. Like everyone does. At least then the pain will end. The body no longer able to scar. The mind no longer able to remember. The heart, thankfully, no longer able to beat.

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(at A Death)

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