droplets – I Am Santo

Triumphant as rivulets,
They’re only so good as one.
Beautiful? Sure.
But progress isn’t easy
On the slow side that’s alone.
The dragged down.
The fallen.
The desperate stretch for another
To collapse into,
Connect,
Pool together
And conjur the merciful wet
Reminding the numb
Of alive,
Of breathing.
Merge and curl,
Supple flesh heaving,
Muscle tensing,
Mouths joined
in an ecstasy of together.
Sex hot, awake
Yearning in bared teeth,
Fingers flexed,
Nails drawn and pulling
Across the back,
The sweet faith,
The hope
Sung in the clipped breath
Of climax,
Of salty release
And convulsive satisfaction.
Sweet smiles
Beading together,
Running down skin
Like the runoff of effort,
Like the wander of drops
When they discover together.

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Published by Jason Santo on March 28, 2015 | Permalink

Look there, out on the road
A cataract view of love
Corroded and collapsing
with uttered disdain
For each gesture made;
What a low fool.
He stoops, knees bent and worn
reducing himself
to pinch-measure ego,
Self-worth summed in the thin space
Between thumb and index.
What a pressed fuck.
What spineless affability,
Tiptoeing on eggshells
and listening to their
Crack, crack, crack underfoot anyhow.
Such craned careful caresses
So as not to upset,
And beg for the crucifix.
The torn wrists and achilles,
Run through
with the raw condescending need
To reign in matters of the heart.
To spatter and feel alive
under the spicket of truth,
Petals opening
Letting in righteous and indignation
In such balanced measure
that the stem bends,
Never breaks
But the blossom stagnates.
Killing love is easy
For the rose.
Her thorns hunger for blood.
And on that slick roadside
The victims lie one by one
In view of the next
Whose heart longs to be
Prick, prick, pricked
By the long bowed neck
Of a hate masquerade.

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Published by Jason Santo on December 17, 2014 | Permalink

Each one of these days pounds ego and heart into puddles spilled roadside and forgotten once the air dries. Sun beaten, any sign of pain erases. No splash made, these are the despised hours where an ocean’s weight drowns past promise. The gray was summoned! Greed and desire cracked each dam and then there’s surprise when the floods tore apart every structure in place? Arrogant, this mourning. Lying prostrate waiting for the executioner’s bullet when the gun was always in hand. Light holds no truth, and darkness brings quiet longing for that which was laid to waste. Something will grow from this splintered soil; no ground is so inhospitable that time, light and showers can’t challenge. So this killshot awaits, the bullet case cracking as a seed and birthing the next great whimsy. Silver-lined, it’ll seek open audience with the sun and clouds, but bloodstains don’t wash clean, instead threaded into the fiber of each crooked hope. It’ll never be reclaimed. Past efforts lie dead in cemeteries of crumbling headstones, memories only seen in small reflections littering uneven ground on rainy afternoons. May the world go to desert, for while nothing will grow, maybe then too nothing will remind.

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Published by Jason Santo on April 13, 2014 | Permalink