I Am Santo

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

The threat song undulates like a to-term child in the womb, its definition complete, lyrics like limbs scraping from inside, punching and kicking for birth. Hold it in. That fire and melody, that rhythm of the darkness, the thudding black purge that desires to evacuate, needs escape. Move and sway under new moon struggle, the shred of pitch appointing moments with discordant ringing. Is there someone lending voice to such longing, someone aware of this failed aspect lurching low in morning like a welping mutt struck and rib-broken under the fierce boot of ardor? Fucking dog, pained and dragging the filth of hunger into a pantheon of scabrous loathing; the weak voice pleading, needing, seeding the indecent compromise of well-wishing and fawned platitudes that gurgle up instead of the bile burning at the back of the throat. Kick. Bring that hurt and let the funereal dirge of Hades echo down shadow-lined hallways that flit and shudder in twilight hope swept up by the faithless wind of night’s birth. Arisen, the child of desecration and tear-stained restraint cries in the shrill language of rage; the torment of choked breath a chorus of fetid harmony. Delivery a release, the joy of an inferno is brief, blistering catharsis that writhes and screams; quickly haunted by the cold ash of affliction.


#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #instawriter #writersofig #poetsofig #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #microfiction #poetrycommunity #igwriters #freeverse #silhouette #phoneart #shadows #chiaroscuro (at Mute)

Maybe he’s dead. That explains the inaction, the indecision; the inability to agree but instead lay in cold silence and stare long into the dark as tears collect in a pool around his rigor. Beautifully corrupt, like rot creeping into mid-summer blooms, he’s unkind wind promising storms for thirsty hearts and instead bringing razor sands frenetically whipped into stabbing chaos by breathing – so shallow – grass springing around his rock-weighted arms like their hopes, but never growing in him, never creasing his alleged will. That monolithic stillness a vaccuum of courage, the black of color death draws long sighs, quaking thighs, worried eyes and whispered lies. Anything falls from their lips to stir him, ink dripping onto the squalid parchment of his skin under their wet caress, his epidermis now torn pages of a history better forgotten but poured over and over, like gospel, the devout clinging to hopes that the airless caverns of his lungs will expand again, bending ribs outward in great welcoming heaves that flood him with oxygen and bring the moon back to his eyes. Yet still there’s rust, the caustic quiet of his indelicate cowardice ripping apart the vast mechanisms of love, spilling springs and hopes, cogs and dreams like some fragmented clock that tried to keep time to his nature then shattered under the entropy of his desires, whatever those were. He never knew, the seconds, minutes and hours dutifully dropping from today to yesterday as chipped micah gleaming against soul light in it’s descent from top to bottom – hourglass spill – and isn’t that precious? Isn’t that decadence and wonder? His reluctance is a hungry pull of their attention and they cry, assaulted by the gravity of his expiration, their hands cupped and hoping to hold his adoration as he slips through their fingers, silent and unforgiving.


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(at Finished)

Walk this world. Break days into eggshell hours and horsehair minutes, leaving the coarseness of seconds along like a breadcrumb trail back to youth. Whistle. Cloud guess. Build forts. Hide. Run so fast to nowhere with no one waiting; with no agenda demanding arrival and obligation just a word that sounds like a boardgame with blocks and armies. Upend the structure of expectation. Expose the fragility of rules. Bask in affections and love, sweetness, just love! As if your heart were the only one that is able in this brick-encased ordered world of cubicles and paperclips, of containment and reserve. Sweat! Cry! Fight! Swoon! Do not compromise, but instead command the waves to break on your command and the sun to poke through rain clouds threatening to disrupt your mighty abandon. Hollow reality as if it were a woodwind – a piccolo – and play a high tune from your effort that will catch willing hearts in your music and teach them how to dance. You’re the wonder, the culmination of chance and love passed down through crooked generations, a dice roll into presence and the cure to trepidation by shame. Walk this world. And bring down walls with every small step taken into the future; ruining limitations and embracing bliss.


Let’s give them a chance to live. Thanks to @karens_words for telling me to write this.

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(at Hope Walker)