I Am Santo

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

Awake. Moonlight assaults and cold, so cold and shaking. Maybe from the air. Maybe from the sin of still caring. Carried there to here on the creaking stretcher of consciousness and delivered, sweating, breathing fast into now; horrific now, the creeping, inky unfathomable space of drowning above the surface. Hands pull, never tearing, but crushing pressure still, too firm on taut skin left slick with the passage of waking, and oh, this damnable dark is so much more forgiving than the day left behind, the quarrel and fresh loss like rain in a gutter sneaking away from Heaven without revitalizing, a tricky but of gray to swarm over eyes tensed and staring forward, out of here and away. Such calamitous lies and web spun, designs to catch new, fresh nourishment for a soul dying not even on a vine but vineless, fruit rotting and punctured thin and white, ghost white, and repellent like these thoughts, these cruel memories requiring exorcism, like fresh sun jabbing into unready eyes, piercing irises in bloom. Details abound, sick metaphors swimming like sharks in blood stained waters, jaws shattering the spine of hope with mercilessly sharp reminders of the powerful and powerless; a simile spider wrapping fresh sentences in gossamer and preying that this will be the last meal. The death. Pure silence and the kindness of final rest when hammers of indifference echo outside the coffin, among trees bathed in the moon’s tears and the startled find old dreams suffocating, buried, finished. Resign and let the end have its wretched way with each aching chamber of a collapsed core left beatless and petrified. Mercy lies in acceptance of final breath, the haunting a fear of what’s next and nothing more. Let the dark settle. The light only blinds.

#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #instawriter #igpoets #igpoems #mobileartistry #creativewriting #fiction #flashfiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #microfiction #literature #poetrycommunity #writersofinstagram #storyteller #moody #pain #selfportrait #writeitout #escape #moonlit #awake (at With a Start)

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)

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)

Bled by light, chemical burns and crushed within fists shaking from violent rage, dark eyes penetrate. Cancers pervasive in the edges of this self portrait, growing, eating, fucking and clawing with eagerness to end the tinny clarion setting hairs on end, tearing kindness from saints. Glares and flares, deepened stares, the enemy of reason and a switchblade heart equipped for the surgery of hope. Extraction and filth, piracy and modern nuance, teeth stained with the blood of decadent nocturnes. Sleep and see his visit; arising from the depths of destruction, a castoff angel with seared wings seeking revenge on the people of the sun. His damage floats on the sea of dreams, flotsam in the flooded corridors of peace. #irispad #day23 #sept23 #selfportrait #edit #selfie #flare #polaroid #writing #poem #writer #streamofconsciousness #poetry #words (at Under the Carseat)