I Am Santo

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

A hand on your throat
Did you know it’s a note?
To a melody shaking,
No this isn’t a joke.
Can you carry this, lover?
Over shoulder, lost hope.
An understanding, a lesson
And learn how to cope?
All reason’s stung, bleeding
Into moments misspoke
Into climates arranged
And desires like smoke
Disappearing in ether
When the gallant are broke
This world unhands us,
These meanings connote.
Soul fires igniting
And nothing is rote
A blasphemy of hours
Time’s kindling afloat
In a celestial flood
Star currents elope
Wailing arias from Heaven
Tightened nooses of rope.

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The allure rests somewhere beyond the unyielding sun or hourglass sand, the wafts of cleansing cilantro, smoky chorizo, or bliss resin peppering bareskin evening, the explosive aerosol flora turning edifice to canvas or the fevered industry of four million restless lovers blanketing the sky. Beyond such accumulated scurry and linger are hearts open, hands turned up in welcome, words that pass easily through smiles. All spin and dance, toil and grin, welcoming, wanting, wishing for this better or that improving, and their skin creases – olive, brown, peach – at pinched eye corners, umber when mixed by sunset, glorious and teaming shoulder to shoulder like the azure tide-swells at midday, cresting, pulling, withdrawing and delivering. Lovesongs float on the breath-warm air and arms extend, find that lover, hold on, fill, and then shed ugly beliefs, the no’s, the can’ts, the don’ts and instead feel, like sand welcoming the wave, hungry, feasting, absorbing melody as if each heart near joined in chorus and set the day’s end to adagio, the slow simmer of desire within the crowd; the lazy waltz that hangs stars in the night like earrings near a neck awaiting kisses.

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Aloysius slayed canvas like the knights in shining armor of his childhood slayed dragons. He’d had these plastic men with their faux feathered helmets, plumes that should have danced in the wind of the sandbox, but were instead still, solid as the shields and swords each beared with unyielding courage. And they won every time against the fire breathers, just as he did versus canvasses and their onlookers, his paint drawing blood and truth as he exorcised whatever malignancy grafted itself to heart and bone. He swung wide and hard, saw the failure of society and the unfairness of today playing among the reds and blues he coughed into fever bliss that, like a magic pill, drew eyes open and murdered assumption. Aloysius knew truth, and each portrait rendered drained a little of it from him, bled him dry of his wisdom and fed furious eyes and hearts with the soothing cold steel of his veracity. He painted life, shattering childhood hiding places like candy glass, beads raining down on the foolish, their dimness illuminated by each stroke of his brush, a scabbard dabbed in liquid hues. The maestro dared his audience to bring their fire and then he ripped their bellies free of judgement, extinguishing hate by appealing to the colors of their humanity. Aloysius killed ignorance, his art a cocoon for closed minds, hatching free thought and love that fluttered above derision. And in his wake they walked wounded, weighed down by their responsibility as brothers, fathers, daughters and aunts to lift and carry, no longer ignoring their places in the woven canvas of together.

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That call ruined two decades, regret pounding at the door of resilience to average days; those routines ignored and unappreciated, dismissed as cowardice and choking happiness. Because nothing was good enough, the plaster of shattered walls caking fists and the dull ache of bruised bone a constant reminder that possibility was folly, the weak-minded’s fork in a road where the path taken was lamented in mirrors brow-beaten, chaos angles at play in the day to day, hours growing cold in the winters where belonging betrayed and suffocated dreams gasped for hope in the clear air of home. How that other world beckoned, church chimes ringing loudly for those lapsed of faith, the heart hearing – paying – the toll with the pull, pull, pull of undeserving promise. And finally the fragile home collapsed, comfort demolished and great billowing dust clouds swelling outward, coating now in the chalky remains of kindness and support. All that was left was to sweep, collect, contain yesterday in an urn with solemn reverence and then turn and listen again to the dull ache of bones reverberating like tuning forks smacked low by destiny. Tomorrow was a threat, and the bloodied, self-mutilated under alleged failures and veins coursing more with disdain than blood, stopped the pummeling, looked west and stepped quietly into acceptance, the magic world of that other path appearing on the far side of a barbed thicket that proved only as deep-cutting as allowed. And awash in sun, there was welcome and the shock of assurance, the overwhelming scope of adolescent hope reeled in, cleaned and devoured, nourishing a broken today. It’s time to dine on tomorrow, a meal prepared for the always-deserving only now hearing the call of the dinner bell and seeing the table set.

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#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #poetry_addicts #literary_imagery1 #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #window #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #streamofconsciousness #writersofinstagram #story #storyteller #losangeles #cityofangels #palms #palmtrees #bluesky #california #californiadreaming (at Answers)

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Streaming Movie The Dark Tower (2017) Online
Watch Full Movie The Dark Tower (2017)

  • The Dark Tower (2017)

  • Duration
    95 mins
    Genre
    Action, Western, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror.
  • In Cinemas
    August 3, 2017
    Language
    English.
  • Country
    South Africa, United States of America.
  • Watch and Download Movie The Dark Tower (2017)

Plot For The Dark Tower

Movie ‘The Dark Tower’ was released in August 3, 2017 in genre Action. Nikolaj Arcel was directed this movie and starring by Idris Elba. This movie tell story about The last Gunslinger, Roland Deschain, has been locked in an eternal battle with Walter O’Dim, also known as the Man in Black, determined to prevent him from toppling the Dark Tower, which holds the universe together. With the fate of the worlds at stake, good and evil will collide in the ultimate battle as only Roland can defend the Tower from the Man in Black.

DIRECTOR

Nikolaj Arcel.

Producer

Ron Howard, Akiva Goldsman, Brian Grazer, Stephen King.

Production Company

Imagine Entertainment, Weed Road Pictures, Media Rights Capital, Sony Pictures Entertainment.

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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.

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The break crash whim. The startle. Wind whistle fuckery and a turned cheek to another direction. Hailstorm loss, dented metal and titanium weakness. Bent soul, crooked and weighted, impatient, unfathomable, unwelcome. You’re singing in the breeze, excuses floating past now into yesterday, words finding no mooring like a dingy in a hurricane, gale-blasted and sinking, overcome, drawn down into a heart too weak to allow dreams to float. Sunk in resentment. Drowning in a lack of veracity and staring up into watercolor skies strewn above by the shaking wrist of tomorrow; the desire for your welcome. Hungry for the next flood, willing the pieces across the board with wine-spilled thought and a tickled tongue, such fancy pronouncements bid attention, longing. But as soon as sun cracks cloud, drought ensues, an arid fester, charcoal heart bursting into carcinogenic indecision and wavering conclusions, tissue paper caught in a maelstrom of indifference. You’ll follow through with kindness because soil craves your honor. But demands steal the sky, rob worth and any growth is looted dawns, larceny angering heavens; a weed tangled in a scream for freedom. Disallow that salivating cancer, build immunity and greet the pastel wisdom of invitation to bask in your fire-light. Brilliant fusion. Fist smash lust. Inebriant coercion and flushed chest heaving. Go because another word spill will uncover the relics of something long buried that belongs in the untouched shale of then, not now. Not ever.

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(at Don’t)

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They’re saying “thank you.” You might not be able to hear them, but their voices are low, some stuck in the swallow of tears, some interrupted by the kindness of laughter you gifted them; maintaining your memory like stained glass in a grand cathedral of their memory. Cherished. Adored. Caught in the sun. Spilling color across their internal bodies, their unseen aspects, which lay curled as if in the womb and beg to stretch and accept, with only joy able to flood their clutching limbs into release. You opened them. The mania of your energy, the high mountain climb of your feverish staccato, the relentlessness of your wit that fell onto the willing like starlight does on the night of a new moon. The churning pull of their bellies when a frown creased your face as if it were a mask cast from the purest care; it didn’t matter what you wanted them to feel, they felt it. They looked up at you and your divinity was apparent, your flight above them an Icarus trip to the sun shrouding each upturned face with the gentle ash of your undoing. They will not wash, but will let the film of your gift sit upon their faces so that they might – at cold times of weariness – shake with laughter, or so they can – when the sky is warm with love – remember thankfulness with a heart-sprung tear. To say you’ll be missed, kind bird, is a whisper in a canyon, at once understatement and an expression that reverberates not by loudness, but by volume as it careens off equally touched souls whispering their own eulogies. May there be a way for you still to hear them in your rest, and may their soft assurances, praise and thanks help bring you peace.

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The broken down black Camero he drove had turned Shelly on, but niw that he was at her ranch, she felt shy and stupid. Gary was the kind of guy all the girls in her class talked about: older, dangerous, fast. And his hands seemed to have a mind of their own when they’d met, flexing their way under her shirt and below the tight band of her panties which she’d bought for that night. She wanted to be seen, and by someone like Gary, but now he was there and everything seemed too real, as if a dream she’d has kept going once she’d opened her eyes. The headlights of the Camero made her cast her eyes down and though she’d been waiting half an hour for him to show up, Shelly was slow to open the gate to the driveway up to her parents’ house. They were in Florida right now, probably eating swordfish and sipping gimlets on The Keys. In the meantime she would be surrendering to Gary and his Camero, the headlights by which her weakness was transparent. The gate opened with a groan of its unoiled hinges, and Gary rolled in, unwelcome.

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This photo is from an IGer named @just_jaylin who has been a great sport by sending me images to write to each time I send out a request for such. Finally, I got around to one of them! I love this shot. It’s a David Lynch movie waiting to happen and that partially is the vibe I tried to represent with this odd little take. Thank you, Jaylin!

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This winsome song
played in the hollow
Of our ribs,
the marrow of our undoing
A breathless request,
melody lilting into yesterday
Devoid of sorrow
for hunger and fullness
Like an undone clasp
On the honor of welcome.
Be mine tonight
And murder worry
With the proof
Of ignited yearning.

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