I Am Santo

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

Those pens gripped had spilled more blood than ink, and now carnage roiled by each word spat in epitaph carelessness gathered in conscious pools, the bilious exhuming their regrets in a fountain of their own rot. If care were a weapon, then a nuclear strike had decimated the good and cold blue stared with disdain into their swooning weakness. Love not a cloven-hoofed butcher. Love not a cancer that eats its way into vitality and spins horror among the kind. Wading in massacre, unaffected by the calamitous morning song of memory and flesh bared, hearts are eaten and then shit by reckless lusts; dreams caught in incisors, filthy chunks of longing tasted, half-digested and then vomited with practiced tenderness and gentle touch. What a con, a gross manipulation of sorrows swinging from low branches like that snake’s apple, caressed with long fingers and cool calm. Somewhere was a soul, buried deep in the selfish crave for flesh, but nuanced wordcraft spun like webbing from lips molded to pleasure, and helpless flies lose their wings in the quivering gossamer of greed. Stop searching for reason. It’s death lurking behind callous intention, a body committed to graft and awakened under the sick ease of whispered intimacies. Reveal and be swallowed. The fester of a barren heart is it’s metronome timing, the sluggish inevitable tempo of a victim turned killer. Over the instant it’s set into motion, this derelict rhythm poses as a sonnet when it’s a dirge. The dancers weep, their limbs eviscerated under the falling knives of each retraction, sharpened on grindstones of false hope awash in the vicera of promises unkept.


#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #window #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #streamofconsciousness #writersofinstagram #story #storyteller #selfie #epicselfie #putonadamnshirt #blueeyes #portrait #probablytemporary #lousymood (at Revile)

Aren’t you done begging yet? Isn’t the lack of resolution during this desert trek of arid searching enough for your eyes to close? Stop looking. Nothing fits other than the glass slipper you shattered when stepping too hard, asking too much, demanding a king’s ransom on a pauper’s pay. The vibrant hues of acceptable days erode into steel gray. Hopes abound in a lush swirl of Spring defiance, and yet a Winter heart thumps like a hollow kettle drum absent the rhythm of reason. How easy it would be just to fall in line to the syncopated need of another pounding away for their own good will. How simple to prop up others to bloom under their sun while yours is lost on the other side of the world, dire wolves baying in the cold midnight of each hour as this heart drifts west, staying in the night, star-chasing as if it there were reason to the tapestry woven by light year sorrow. There isn’t. There’s only the bleak hold of now and these fissures of bliss that seek to crack core stone like January rain, seeping and expanding in the frost of guarded indifference. What a sick joke frost plays on the Summer mind, coating warm dreams until they’re too heavy to float with hope, sinking like truth under an ocean of omitted truths. There isn’t a villain alive that didn’t once fight as a hero; the cold heart still echoing the heat of conviction that this is right. Earnestness is poison ambrosia for the wounded, a hobbled bear helpless until it dines on the flesh of the cuckolded brave and foolish. The clear-minded would strike from a distance, take what can be had and run. Because this melancholy beast is made from ruin, steel eyes searching for a home dismantled by greed, still crying for another chance like fire set loose near new fields of tinder.


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Beaten or Saint. Fallen victim to the night sweats of staining desire and the eggshell thin facade that spider cracks with each breathless pant, each writhing moan. May those backs break like will. Crack, crack, crack. May those wills break back. Crack, crack, crack. In there is a truth, among the candlelit tremble, swift moving archways and bridges built, collapsing, granting and yielding. Crack, crack, crack. Who is this wrapping blood knuckled on the door of tomorrow, but the feigned kisser, the uncommon well-spring of a Saint that started downstream with such crushed vertebrae common in the death of silver, tarnished at those starting depths where the fire hunger consumed parchment light and echoed in the dark, a missive, a silo, a wretched little penchant for the corrupt praise and so thick, so deep, it rises, breaching night’s surface and shatters that solemn promise of ending the curse. Crack, crack, crack. Goes the vow, the lineage longer spent in suffering than a Saint could allow, the begger, that Beaten. The fool, that Beaten seed. Crack, crack, crack. Smile rich and flesh devoured with the ease of slipping fingers and daring tongue. Crack, crack, crack. Oh, how the rich ones fail, the dainty ones dodge, the troubled seek, the unkind relent and still the mirror whines for truth. Crack, crack, crack. So thirsty for fresh roots, recovered soil, blank slates and the fresh chalk of her powdered cheeks. In her smile, there’s a whole. In that fevered exchange, plied by the bottle, the sin, the drive, the appetite, the answer to such angry wonder, a half moon at the end of a search for full sun. Half and half, always. Half and half, Saint. Half and half, Beaten. Half and half. Crack, crack, crack.


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(at Cunning)

This loss of breath,
It’s wrong by design.
A same shallow escape;
A withdrawal into night
As if the stars had hands
That clutched at need, desire, worth.
In that moment, she looked tired but fulfilled,
Yet truth hung obvious to her
As a coat on a rack
Snow-flight drying
By a closed front door
Where he was absent
From entering.
The mirror showed a perfect dance
Of light and shadow
Over the stretched fineness
Of her high esteem
That again slid from her
As longing.
Her impeccable bones
The tenderness of the lines leading from neck to chest
And the exquisite lithe elegance of her arms
Her legs.
Caught in the glow
Of candle and wine
She appeared consumed
But sought full embrace,
The exhale of lips
Under the table,
The skirt.
It was the same look.
The same ache of the chest,
The limbs,
The sex.
Only here lived the lonely
Who were not alone
Sleeping under night
Instead of under passion.


A collaboration with my friend Christine Hunt (@christinehunt76), a New England based actress and model that I am happy to see getting back to work. Her photo and edit, my words.

#poem #poetry #writing #writer #literary_imagery1 #poetry_addicts #poetic #poet #words #igpoetry #imagesandwords #woman #beautiful #lovely #sultry #epicselfie #model #actress