I Am Santo

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

Cherry Sin

Cherry-dipped sunsets soften with their grenadine punch, calliope keys pressed, whistle-blowing off steam. Truth wins every time, a revolution glowing brilliant as each note played, steam crowding unprepared skies with demand. Be seen, heard. Satisfied melodies ripping through golden hour haze, dripping longing in the boughs of bent tree stems caught in eerie silhouette; how that red tantalizes as a Pamplona beast set loose on comfort, China shop securities shattered. So many pieces left aglimmer, sharp edges hungry to lacerate and spill hot lusts, pried open mouths, thighs. Dreams saunter safely as hands stay pocketed, poise like loose change jangling. It’s a quarter ‘til day’s end, murky beauty seizing light and across the sweet horizon skin cools after the blush. Hush. Unfocused passions are a stain on better faiths, so push that lens west, turn it to hone the burn and walk away while the world’s caught. Fire purges. It’s the only thing hungrier than reason. And the drift of ash lilts in waltz during settling evening, a nocturne under the stars falling like black snow, a hint of sweet stinging air and memory.watch Annabelle: Creation film now


Heavens Dim

This love blooms
With galaxy center force
Shaming light-stealing lusts,
Rewriting time’s relativity.
The past writhes
Slick and parasitic
But with its nebulaic charms
Birthing shimmering futures
From dusty tendril grips
And oh how the firmament
Pales in its white-knuckle press
Leaking spent wishes between
Void clogged fingers.
Lofty simplicity summons suns,
Questions quasars,
Pronounces pulsars
In weak-kneed comparison
To the heated clutch of these heavenly bodies,
The undulating fission
Where sweat and greed
Sting tongues,
Where ardor’s salted urgency
Slickens, stirs, softens.
Just let that universe shade green
In rambling, cheap verse
Because behind all that black
Are these blue dreams
Purpling with every flinch,
Each quivering vision
Of the beyond
As heights seize, crack, open
And rest sweeps celestial reach
Beneath mingled eyelashes
Clichés are forgiven,
Pasts are revealed as stepping stones
Run smooth, eroded
By the torrential bliss
Of now
Reigning like sunlight.


These rays fall like hope, radiating from solar promise and holding back bleak nights of alone, the fierce dark embrace that presses eyes shut even as they are open, staring at pinhole starlight that careens from hearts light-years in the past, echoing from easy kisses, lust-fueled touch and eager union. What supernova bliss! How it glimmers in the untouchable agonies of now, this spin dirtying prayers for unblemished views into the uncharted lands of tomorrow; destinies hungry as the collection basket at the front pew. God’s witness clings to the story of two forever, but these winking pinpoints flinch and bob behind cloudcover realities, and the obscuring forces of foresight and careful attenuation sting with red-shift intention, exhibiting pasts that cannot possibly be so beautiful but which still stare into the present with hungry glory, eating away at communion wafer beliefs. In symmetry. In belonging. In companionship. Were it as simple as collapsing stars radiating in stellar frenzy, the simple force of gravity enough that rips titanic energies to pieces and yet cannot pull like hearts together on this head of a pin planet. We’ll die alone while in the infinite, suns swooning in their galactic certainty, bleeding light into irredeemable chaos and making dreams seem possible, tangible.


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Crack the afterlife and boil massive sin, because this cook spins nebulaic dust into Godsong and crafts the delicacy of galactic fervor into digestible yearning. Fill up on it, because nothing lasts, the searing nuclear core of suns measuring nothing more than seconds, molecules dissipating like ticks on an old wristwatch; the tocks lost like laundry socks. Yet it all feels heavier than worship, more daunting than judgement. For something so mighty and transient, this recipe for incessant defeat still manages to rise every time, the bread of the true lord chased down with the wine of hate. What a pairing, like hours to moon phases and sugars to death; the felt sky’s ripples into eternity dilute nothing. Space is not as cold as this concave heart that’s slowing each day to a forever still. May it be dined upon in a blink of an eye, prepared for no one and open to greedy consumption; an egg hardened with a soft shell and cracked by stuttering destinies.


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All this fucking sin squeels
Like a pig gutted in the
charnel house
and you
you dive like the sun at the
failure of day,
a bastard clinging to the light
you never deserved,
an orphan screaming about her
perfect parents, the moon and
the stars,
and how aligned they were
In you slow, succumbing demise.


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(at Get Down)

Desert this. Pull the ripcord and let the Earth’s drag you down, out like a child from the womb, screaming new song in the catacombs of lost hopes, a lone cry for help among the selfish whores of Babylon who count their gold before the future comes, guiding hands that feed into incisors hellbent on the gnash, the grind, the bloody, ripped tendons of landing without air, like a brick dropped into the sea. Drown, you worthless wretch, and let these failures fill your lungs like seawater, salt stinging and seizing like a lover gripping sex too hard and burning raw tension, as if the sun threw flares and murdered progress. Without accounts or the killing of time, the climaxing fool is airborne, somewhere above, falling, flailing, tugging at useless tomorrows as if the chute itself were to bring mercy, a dear friend catching the onrush of air and hate billowing in the raging atmosphere of sin. Descend and let loose the horror plaguing each decision cached like a bond, the sense trickling and each note subject to matchstick avarice. Such charnel debt in the undone climbs of now. Such an unfavorable return, to waking hours, to the land below, to routine and responsibilities stacked high like coins next to a child’s broken piggy bank; sorted, precarious, leaning and daring one more to be placed on top before it all crashes down, the fall short, the value lost, each blessing taken for granted. And somewhere below or above, the cartwheeling sun teases with notions of beauty, fingers on chest dugging, thighs like vices, light and dark rhythms plummet, withdraw, and voices tense in transient ecstasies forgetting burning fates in the sweet loss of rationale. And then a final inhale before arrival, fierce and brutal. A welcome heart stop. An abandoned fate.


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The skull crack violence of an August sky allowed warning, and yet still it trapped. Were they not aware of the overhead boil of the atmosphere, they couldn’t have been less prepared. But they knew. They stepped into the storm together, fingers laced and knuckles white, and stood at the edge of tomorrow as if it were a cliff overhanging the crash of an agitated sea. And he knew to jump would be uncertain flailing, but he believed he could fly. And she knew that to leap would be discovery, but she wanted to seize faith. The rain took up all around them then, the howl of Summer’s lust catching them before they could make any decisions and still they hung on to each other. Spun, tossed, unmoored from familiarity, they hurled into the rot of serenity, hands locking as their limbs bent and broke, and they screamed from the sweet pain of comfort being ripped from them. They were blessed, moved closer together, stared into the eyes of God and found themselves staring back. The gales shuddered into breezes kissed by sea spray, and the salt of the air cushioned their descent. They landed softly among the bones of old hopes, spines of volumes written in deference to old dreams, and they breathed together, into each other. Today had ended, becoming yesterday, the pain of now yielding to less harrowing tomorrows. They drew strength in embrace, but untangled, pulling their broken faith from the fresh memory of their fall so they might climb, grip and be swept up again, tiny paper hearts willingly tattered in the maelstrom of desire.


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Hell is loneliness for the abandoned. To finally have slept adjacent to another’s tender warmth and basked in the aura of together, what a lie. What a temporary fuck; blissed out senses in override like an old beat up sedan pressed too hard into fourth gear over the baked, naked heat of late Summer macadam. Felt good. Limbs loose and carelessness climbing to vertiginous heights over the sprawl of land growing best intentions, sprouting dreams, pollinating barren fields with hope. But death is constant, and rot its filthy companion, sinking oxygen rich teeth into the soft flesh of youth and tearing away imagination, naïveté, and willingness bite by bite. Gnashing in jaws fortified by the chemistry of failure, a strengthened muscle of acceptance that this is deserved; that the empty space beside isn’t punishment, but just fate directing her diseased script with heart-shattered actors. Dante couldn’t write in nine circles what each breath brings, each passing minute, each graying hair, new wrinkle and failing organ. All prove youth’s stumble was just as much a waste as an elder’s grace, the fires of passion fueling both.


#poem #poetry #writing #writer #poetic #creativewriting #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #poetsofinstagram #writersofinstagram #story #love #nature #clouds #sky #cloudporn #bluesky #littlefluffyclouds #highway #nh #newhampshire (at Unbalanced Ends)

These vowels, these long shapes passing through rounded lips and coughed in consonant wrapped shells fired from discordant thought, well, they have no target. They’re sprayed into the great above, rippling past cirrus intention and falling short of weightlessness, tumbling down with fury, a rain of shallow indignation and blustery but hollow fervor. Being unkind is the gift of snipers; syllables exacting and piercing eloquence obliterating targets with furious candor. They’ll put out the sun if they have a grand enough reward for stolen dusk, using a canon of perfectly defined treachery tailored for weak hearts, for those get eclipsed so easily by greed’s precision. Their desire isn’t bombast, but ballet. Where the unknowing loose a hurricane of invective into their own eye, the practiced entice with crystal clear skies, force the bloom of their quarry, then kill with unrelenting bright, the exacting heat of an untamed solar lexicon. The maelstrom gathers the lowliers, surfeit kindness like filthy bubbling silt at the edges of gutters, funneled into the sewer of discontent. How they just wanted to join the current. How they wanted to feel a lovely summer downpour on their cold skin, splendid platitudes that cracked the sky into florets of cauliflower wonder that later cancelled care sloppily with a thunderous groan. Here is where those sharpshooters knew better, for their slaughter is merciful, the calf in the lightless stall killed without any flavor of hope tempting it’s flaccid tongue, bellies grown ripe with vapid feed that sweetens the slain. Gathering clouds over a desert is cruelty. Learn to be a sun. Take and kill.


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The sun gives warning before it brings night, the ugly dark preceded by firelight bathing the last minutes of day in Hellstorm hues that mirror the flush of this rage. And so this black descends. How fucking tired, your type. How gracious that you’ve been offered comparison to fleeting moments of day. Even if nature’s palette spills this same masterpiece so often that specifics are easily forgotten, much the way you will be, you earned at least a line of dialogue in this motion picture; a walk-on role that’s far more than an anonymous ill-educated hack should be awarded. Maybe the whole film is a farce, and you’re the voice of an audience that’s suffered enough, a tiny ember of the fire that burned brighter than your paltry intellect seemed it could before succumbing to a cold end; stumbling onto a larger truth and barely coherent enough to fuel notice. It’s richly undeserved, your fleeting spark. And if you stand with others, may the mob incinerate quickly in the crematorium of your adolescent jealousy. And may your ashes be cast to the sea, you all forgotten but still the gesture of your dismissal a fleeting muscle memory, a waste of temper and words that leaves scars far deeper than any pathetic attempt at cutting your frail mind could muster. Such big words you use, little boy! How the heavy shackles of your own wretched decisions look so perfect on a monarch that cares nothing for your plight, but will admonish your disrespect with stern warning before lopping off your head. May this be a lesson to your common dimness; this dark will bury you alive. Don’t waste what little air you’ve left shouting blame. The sun isn’t returning for you.

#poetry #poet #writing #writer #creativewriting #literary_imagery1 #poetry_addicts #poem #sun #sunset #dusk #sky #clouds #storm #cloudporn #rage #anger #daysend #trees (at Ember)