I Am Santo

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

A Song Played ‘Til the End

I am not a pop-up poet or a vintage typewriter guy, but I respect the skill of those who are. Last night I won a flash typewriter poetry competition on an old Royal typewriter from the 1920’s. The F stuck and the hard return hated me, but I managed alright enough. Here is the poem, written on site with the 25 minutes given and incorporating my randomly assigned phrase “Stand-up Bass.”


G clef love
a sin left between verse
with the redletter shout of lust
and absolutes etched like granite carvings
into yesterdays’ mountains
made from molehills
In these day to day dance routines
written in urgent blood;
pumped syncopation of our flagrant loss
and the ripening of hurt
with eacn note played by this trio of longing
where grief is the stand-up bass
and your disaffection spills
like fallen notes from a toy piano
discordant as sour orange
bitter in its incessant ringing.
But oh how his blowhard ways
set the air afire,
a brassy inferno
of troubled bliss,
torching melody at every touch.
Never forget those low moans of fevered yearning
They were the bellwether of this end
The chord pulled
Robbing our song of every electric drop
that once gave us power,
that once promised us tomorrow
that once played together
in faithful harm(ony).


She’s wallowing in accordant sin
The magnificent din
Of misspent fortune.

Drinks lap-spilled and drunk.
Bleary-eyed sunrises stung.
Lace mesh dilettante hung,
Filched climax, lyrics hummed

But never sung.
She’s come undone.
Fingers uncoiled from the last rung.

Crying among
Ripples of fresh sun
Tears return to where she’s from.

The lapping waves
Dismiss a chaos haze.
A memory maze,
Too many lost days.

Her mind cranks, overturning,
An engine on fire, burning;
A soul whirring, spurning,
Each decision, court adjourning

For the verdict is clear,
Cracked lips, each swallow a sear,
Tiny pains from the auctioneer
She bid highest, without fear.

But lying prone at dawn
Another night alone gone,
Absent key and verse of that song

Longed for in her heart
But ignored from the start.
The invitation to embark
Beckoning waves impart

An imagined goodwill,
Abandoned for the acrid swill,
Another drink downed until
The jury’s had its fill

Of her lies;
Gavel struck eyes.
A body despised
Dry dock anesthetized.

Wake up, baby
The Angels are waiting.
Wake up, lady
The waves are breaking.


To have the opportunity to work with the enigmatic and hilarious @theuncenvoredstripper is like winning the lottery. Her images are deeply affecting and her stories even more so. That said, I wanted to challenge myself to tell a story in a totally different way she does to one of her stellar images. Hopefully it compliments as well as one of her own tales.

#poem #poetry #poetic #igwriters #writersofig #poetrycommunity #literature #creativewriting #fiction #writing #writer #story #shortstory #writersofinstagram #poetsofinstagram #flashfiction #microfiction #storiesofinstagram #storyteller #collaboration #classicbeauty #pinup #vintage #portrait #femmefatale #dock #watersedge
(at Bather)

Focus lost somewhere over forgotten years, use’s quota filled with only dust pressing keys. Set for observance, glimpses into an aging past, antiquated and the bokeh for a crisp present sprung from small footprints. Letters still the thread, new needles weave words, rounder edges and softer volumes with sirens’ calls cast the world over. Pulp cadence lost to electric glow, the fever of moments grow mercilessly short, our statements transient and feather weight. #irispad #bokeh #typewriter #vintage #glasses #spectacles #nofilter #antique #shotoftheday #literary_imagery #writer #writing #poem #poetry #teacup (at Type)