I Am Santo

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

The need to say this staggers
Like windswept tenacity
In the untenable.
“I love you.”
What joy
What kindness
What thrill to utter simplicity
In this incomplete now.
“I love you.”
To host these syllables!
The back of the throat
The tongue against teeth
And then, the throat again
But the teeth meeting bottom lip
And a simultaneous push
From the back once more
Through rounded lips
Ready for a kiss.
Such ease and welcome.
“I love you.”
And the words echo
Into nightwalks alone
Where the stars shine
As answer.
Where beds await


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(at I Love You)

No. Not here and not ever will those hands shake as they are, as if Hell breathed an updraft and the coward heart bloomed with rage and fire, shrieking limbs and tearing the mind into everywhere but home, where the beggar unfurls truth and fantasy, hope and ecstasy and the blessed receive baptism under a sky adorned with love, that limitless openness that stretches so far out, beyond, like starlight lost somewhere in an unseen past, still not arrived but coming, silently careening through the vacuum and demanding eyes wait for it’s everlasting shine. Waiting for such beauty in the storm of wretched cataclysm that those garish hurts purvey, those polished blades so cleanly cleaving the thumping, blind care trapped in the hollow cage of ribs and sinew, it’s all chaos and sick whimsy; the sideways fuck of murdered willingness seen with large, beautiful eyes unable to focus, to fix. Each burning thought, a sin against promise, a parade of arrogant, inestimable danger that chews through reason like wildfire does the arid tinder of tomorrow, dried under the crawling chill of autumn. Parched, the soil cracks, crumbed, and the longing by stem and petal for Heaven is choked by the noise and fear of that blood-bone freeze winter thrusting like torment at what should be and can’t. It doesn’t matter. Shook, broken, wordless, refuse strewn over dead ground by wind so whipped by fury that the magnificence of day fails against that lost star somewhere abandoned by an eye that couldn’t believe any longer. Will surrendered, disdain erupts, clouds every corner of dreaming, then falls like ash, death snow blanketing once fertile ground where fleetingly the rose of ardor astounded the sleeping into waking. Haunted now, fragile footprints mark their path away from here, a single gust strong enough to prove that faith never lived here at all.


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(at Nevermore)

C’mon baby, drown in this
C’mon honey, surf on bliss
Watch the sky change
Burn this grass blade
C’mon sugar, give a kiss.

Refract my light, girl
Into prism glee
Rainbow sheen pearls
Your skin is free
Wear this stain coat
Sap from this tree
The path chosen, babe
Accept this need.

Quiver, quake, shake, doll
Underneath it all
Beneath hungry breath
A starving little death
And salt licked while in thrall.

Magnify hurt suns
Skies clouding again
These oceans of longing
Tidal blankets of sin
Blank days carry ire
Somber nights rolling in
Hands absent warm sex
Mouths denied sated grin.

Let go, sweetie, forget the wait
Let go, darling, deny that fate
Sweat glistening with effort
Singing moan, screaming comfort
Let go, love, we’ll illuminate.


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(at Split Suns)

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)

The cloud canvas explodes with nature’s lust and a huger unsated despite the arrogant swell of her bosom. She’ll tantalize. She’ll uncross her legs and pull longing as if it were a stray thread leading to the unraveled folly of gravity’s earnest hold. Falling into the sky, there’s a sense that Heaven awaits somewhere past the curtain of night. Lips made wet with desire, the slippery need of an attraction in parallel, weightless hearts ascend and then catch orbit. Around her. Around the pull of ardor and the promise of home. There was never a prayer as devout as what’s done on these bent knees, never a liturgy as wholly consuming as the need to quake under hot breath, firm grip, long release. The stammer and shake of this gorgeous sin bestows upon an hour a slight turn away, the flight of day. To be taken into the mouth of her trust, to be tasted and coat with the spill of salt and seed; it’s a waking dream under the raging colors of the sun’s exit. Bathing in the red until the cool blue of calm descends despite the torrid grasp of heated minutes. Where she holds tight. Where land and sky melt. Where the body steels, heart stopping, and beautiful darkness arrives sweetly to remind an ultimate truth: you are not alone. In those moments where she welcomed you, you were never alone. #poetry #poet #writer #writing #poem #verse #dusk #clouds #sky #poetry_addicts #mobile_artistry #sunset (at The Luminance Fade)

This empty heaven, it dangles beauty and bisects the cancer of a day’s death. A glass of still knifing through wood and diluting radiant gifts, it remains striking while still a copy; alluring while within reach. Sullied by approachability, value sinks as if counterfeit, but remains held aloft by settled hearts, a bounty for the average. The Gods frown at their ignorance, but spin their cerulean gold just the same, rewarding tiny hands with wet promise. #spontaneous #writing #poetry #poem #verse #words #prompt #sunset #river #clouds #sky #dusk #beautiful #nature