I Am Santo

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

Choke choke cough
Rip this fucking roof off.
Take it like the Grand Moff
Tarkin
Who’s barkin’
Orders to destroy and remarkin’
How Alderaan
Was like the Taliban
Rooting in Afghanistan.
Hiding in caves
Making big waves
Overseas dancing in raves,
But goddamn the party
The arty
Get hearty.
And they dance, bitches
Like Pedro’s hall of fame pitches
Leaving crowds in stitches.
Oh you think this is funny?
This dimestore honey?
It’s all spent money.
Because fuck it,
This dumped bucket
Is an oyster, so shuck it.
And be aware
That a lingering stare
Is the creepy ass glare
That she don’t want.
Your desires haunt
Like that restaurant
Dish never ordered!
Hope drawn and quartered
Your libido gravely unsupported!
So sink
Under spilled ink
And let everyone think
That your life is unwed glory
The big winner’s story
Beliefs gone hoary.
Pull my finger,
You’ll get a ringer
Pulled out the bee stinger
And lapped up some venom.
Those rules, you bent ‘em.
Wearin’ cheap-ass denim
On Sundays
Remember it’s the Lord’s daze
Run through verses like rats in a maze
In grace
How sweet the race
You run like bow-tied lace.
Complacent
Get sprayed with mace mint
Halitosis thoughts tint
A lazy, sidesaddle mind
Now time to unwind
Thinkin’ ’bout Taylor Swift’s behind.
You feel me.
You know you heal me.
C’mon and seal me
In a bank vault
It ain’t my fault
My faith’s in mid-somersault!
And I’m off.
Like a pig in a trough.
Choke choke cough.
Choke choke cough.

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#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #instawriter #writersofig #poetsofig #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #microfiction #poet #selfie #instagood #iamwriting #cough #clearmythroat #wordriot #rap #oldwhiteman #stillgotgame (at Excuse You)

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Can I get a witness?
This business
This lack of fitness
Society’s winless
Fat of the land
Buying name brand
Feeling it’s grand
Worshiping the bland
Celebrity bandwagon
Promoting label braggin’
Fighting age saggin’
Stretchmarks get tongues waggin’
Come on, it’s on
Turn off, go blonde
Hang loose, tan bronze
Booksmarts are gone!
Vanished like Casper
Jibbering like Jasper
Inbred cousin purse snatcher
Nancy Grace lovin’ bastard.
I ask her
About character
About what factor
Makes her matter
Because shit,
Show a tit
And a nitwit
Throws a fit
But engage
With caustic rage
And the turned page
Is sage.
Forgive and forget
Leave the inept adept
Climb walls made wet
From the spit of suspect
Intention
Did I mention?
This clumsy contention
That your errant attention
Is alerted
And diverted
When pleasure inverted
Isn’t called perverted
But the act of love
Blessed from above
What we dream of
Cover eyes with a glove
Kids
This book forbids
So close eyelids
Or use leaves from figs
To hide your disgrace
But don’t erase
Those prizes of faith
Loaded just in case
With lead teeth ready to bite
With the urge to itch scratch fight
With the dark let there be light
Such in site.
Such insight.

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#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #instawriter #writersofig #poetsofig #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #microfiction #rap #selfie #trigger #gun #bangbang #lockandload (at Hubris Witness)

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The heart can’t know.
It’s a muscle,
thudding to the impulse
of the mind’s forgotten needs.
Awash
in the oxygen
of its derelict churning,
beating,
workman-like,
we expect so much of it,
thoughts,
freedom,
direction.
It can’t know,
so the mind does the work
of knowing,
believing,
caring;
its hard duties misappropriated
to the chest drum
keeping everything alive.
We love our hearts
and curse our minds,
but they are in tandem
much more
for they are given credit.
An internal symbiosis,
a miracle of synchronicity
that sets the bar
so high
for what we need
to nourish both.
We desire that other,
the perfect fit
for our hopes,
our sex,
like the very air we breathe;
we urge on
the chemistry of companionship
as if it were
as much a life line
as our inhalation of oxygen,
our exhalation of carbon dioxide.
And so
heart and mind
must always be one.
If anything’s going to happen,
they’re together in the dream,
the faith,
the result.
It’s all one,
this fabled two,
and letting hope
into one
means allowing entry
into both.

.

///**///

#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #instawriter #writersofig #poetsofig #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #microfiction #poetrycommunity #igwriters #iamwriting #selfie #hands #heart #fist #love (at Heartmind)

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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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#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)

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Don’t it sing? This magnificent haze of burning that brings you to him, as if the orange glow of untamed wildfire on a crooked and spoked horizon. What malignant attraction. The darkest corner of failure in your defenses, where you saw hope in the allure of those startling eyes, those inviting lips, that conflagration of passion licking at night as if a tangible aura. What a fraud. Didn’t you already know? It’s unfounded curiosity and a slip of judgement. It’s weakness. For he’s deep devil, reinging Hell on a forked tail of satisfaction with a tongue working infallible magic and hands dutifully granting blind glee, absent heart where yours overflows with the honest need of now. He’s demon, a conniving work of evil masked in comely, long-limbed form and smooth eloquence. Dexterous words and fine fingers seeking flesh and wet, and how your yearning trips you into falling, how the night screams to welcome his fiery eagerness as if he were desert rain and not more vacant heat. The failure of your judgement sickens in the early hours, the cloud of wine breaking and revealing the dark failure such sad wisdom, a thunderclap split by the blinding strike of reason. No lesson learned, his plying weeds in your garden, strangling the beauty of your blooming promise which reaches for warmth and light but lays smothered under his weight when he pushes the long length of lust inside you, filling you, emptying you. The melody of his breathing an uttered curse in the thick, humid night, it merges with the frail musings of morning wren as dawn fails, your naked limbs splayed and awaiting another bout with him as if he were addiction. The fix never fixing. The dream of a heart impossible in his nightmare.

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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)

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One day the color of your soul will catch up to you. And you’ll burn in the fires of hate you deserve. You’ll be wrapped in the yellows, reds and oranges of disdain and the simple pleasures you robbed from trust will peel away skin revealing the black hollow of your desires. There’s no pain unearned. Rip hair from skull, flay flesh from bone and spill the facade into crimson pooling at your cloven feet. You are a devil – not so powerful as to earn the throne of Hell, but enough to live in comfort among the infinite flame; the supernova of punishment that fills your night sky with brilliance and unforgiveness. #selfie #nofilter #ha #poem #poetry #ugly #scary #demon #fright #writer #writing (at Seen)

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Beat this riot of turbulent discord, shorting wires in the puddles of a Main Street where the huddled parade. Claxon earnestness screams for justice, yet hands fail balance and the rigors of responsibility cause soul tremble; edgy mornings that arrive as brilliant floods. Drowning, hands clutch a fist full of hardship, throat choking on the grief of yesterday’s chill. Alone, staring into the sun, going blind with the ease of rust on ancient springs, winter arrives as a blast of short white days. Weathering them all, these gray eyes search at the worry of untamed futures and squint against the steel of His cross. Vanity, fluency in the language of self-interest, and the collection basket floats across pews burdened by the faltering faith of loitering spirits. They’re gone from here, serving in the ghost lights of tomorrow’s mist; an early morning assault on the purity of day. He was day. Yet all he ever knew was an endless night, stung by a brilliant sun. #selfportrait #selfie #morning #light #cross #sunlight #bright #blueeyes #writer #writing #poem #poetry (at Crosshairs)

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Give me a day where it’s all full and illuminated. I want to suck at the tit of progress, bleed hot serum from secret threats, digging into souls with dirty fingernails and reaching for a sun dipped in frost. Clever leaps of hurdles at the crystal hours, a prismatic hope bounced off the walls of fracture. This is a respite, a pass, where I will hang my head low and listen to the darkening of angels as their voices dip into morbid cadence, reminding me of obligation unmet. “For you’re a villain in this house, a warmonger in a land of sweet peace.” And I stare inward, allowing time to wash over me in hopes that it will purge deceit. “No,” I answer. “I am a soldier. This is not my war, but I have been sent to fight it.” And by God, I am tired. #sept27 #day27 #irispad #pass #igotnothing #selfie #selfportrait #down #profile #edit #poem #poetry #writer #writing (at Down)

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