Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Strangling the sun, the air in suffocated gasps drawn through struggling lips; what an eclipse tongue plays over heart. In orbit, strangely in control of each hope, each sentiment, the two rarely align and mystery swirls in the spaces between, cracks and crags eager like wet sex for domination by the thick length of desire. Yet it’s illusion most foul, the deceit of now, of need and hunger. Fish swim in shallow waters, yet diners sit relaxed in warm sun awaiting fillets; ounces of sweat dripping not from effort, but from the lazy weakness of convenience. What’s deserved. What’s right. Each can march in line like lemmings. Each will die from greedy demand, from not trying; from not working toward difficult Heavens awarding patience, kindness, surety and strength. The gusts of yearning sweep easy heartbeats into barren futures instead. Collect. Merge. Fuck. Yell. Complacent gazes in cracked mirrors, in puddles on the floor, in the clear lakes of disdainful simplicity. What’s complex shocks systems worthy of sustaining the jolt of life’s paramount lust. Cast lines into deeper waters, thrust and suck, squeeze and tremble, but wait first. Wait, wait, wait, sick dear souls of unrest and lonely. Don’t leap at each swimming in periphery. Wait and choke for a while on today. Yesterday is larynx stuck. Tomorrow will either bring death or freedom, the demand of steady breath and heart ensuring kinder moonrises in the curl of together.


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