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.


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Just another set of numbers. Simply another statistic. Another greeting card’s failure and another promise abandoned. In the great gulf between reason and knowing, what’s this casualty but a hiccup on our short hop through such grand drama? And what a fine bit of memorization these days were, because it’s easy to do right? Pay the bills, fix the loose planks, vaccuum the floors, clean the toilets, and trip all the fucking way through every monotonous task as if it were Hercules challenging the wrath of Gods because at least there’s passion in such quiet mundane. At least there’s purpose. Take that away and there’s breathing, eating, shitting. There’s a world that spins and without reason or need for this sack of ideas and belief because it’s too small; too much a leftover from a bygone time when fallibility was forgiven. Or maybe these chances were just used up, a sponge left out in the arid Texas afternoon of August. The cavalcade of horrendous thought that grew like moss over the soft wet of happiness, so prone to the horrid meandering, so suceptible to failure. Because that’s what everyone is: at fault and an acceptable loss sent to die on a gray shore for greater understanding that this is all transient. Nothing here matters, the pull of a tide on the dead strewn in the sand just a reminder that no sacrifice is clean. All are salted with the grit of a crying ocean and the filth of the Earth’s hubris. All are borrowed time in irregular seconds that speed through peace and linger in war. All are digits calculated with clinical derision. One. Two. Three. Four.


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