I Am Santo

Fiction, poetry, music and mindscape pictures by creative artist Jason Santo


Whine by the bellyful, the sanguine press of a bleeding heart wreathes like those thorns across the forehead of a savior, spilling forgiveness. There’s none to be had. Hands filthy, the ridges of identity choked with grime and guilt, it’s nothing compared to the blemish of those actions. What’s done, so much louder than words, countless excuses, gods, heavens to mitigate the stain of that charred soul rub, rub, rubbing itself to ecstasy despite the wretchedness of such vinegar thoughts. Sour cock, why search the hatefields to sow your seed, threading dry needles with unsheathed traditions and presumed clemency? Letter opener, thighs unmercilessly spread with the forced grunt of psalms echoing in the chaotic sharp heart searching not for words, but resolution, climax. Those envelopes, sealed shut by tongues, how they’ll be claimed by the richly deserving, the scion of faith in hard work and publically clean noses. Verse chorus versus the rhythm of that pump, pump, pumping bloodrush, demand crushes supply every time. And tears mix with goblin globin, the anachronistic shedding of remorse that gleans sympathy from the buttersoft when it should be like tears from granite. Oh, precious and glorified fuck, how the world was owed you! Now robbed of full pallet, the screeching of debasement is a shallow sip of sediment-heavy vintage; what weight decisions carry! For the taking of what’s not permitted is within His acceptance. But the legacy of shared cork-tainted nectar leaves blessed lands fallow, a grape left to raisin on the vine.


Bound with liquid, our nectar dissipates slower, receding home to pressed beginnings and contributing to a swirl of uncommon thought blanketing palettes with serene dreams. Legs stretch as tendrils of divine truth, ruby streams searching for escape but pulled back to centers all encompassing. We sleep during the course, lying captive to attractions pulling us unsteadily back home. The simplest path offers little trial, and our spill connects naturally, bleeding us into wholes. #irispad #legs #taketwo #wine #wineglass #shitshot #ohgeeclever #poem #poetry #writing #whatiwantedtodofirst #writer #imageandwords #shadow #alcohol (at Sip)

Sip, surfeit, surrender. Each begins with S and travel abroad on oceans of crested meaning, storms avoided by unwelcome fists balled tight around the stems of fine crystal. It’s not violence, this art, but a swallow and sway within the finite, an arbiter of responsibility retired for evenings spent wading in warm paradise. Dreams grow bigger while eyes stay wide, visions dancing as a world spins on a personal axis. For a time it’s ours, then the blur bleeds off and dawn awakens blank-faced recollection with a need to recapture merlot-stained pleasure once night arrives again. #irispad #startswiths #wordsandimage #wine #sip #taste #wineglass #yum #alcohol #poem #poetry #writer #writing