wordporn – I Am Santo

Sea Through

Are we flawless? No, windows dirty just as skin blemishes and thoughts corrupt the way lead paint chips. Death ensures imperfection yet we rage on with wild presumption and hand to mouth eagerness, our feasts a staggering display of gluttony awarded long ago only to the clergy conscripted; the divinely ordinanced few now have to share. On these pebbled banks, marine histories awash with salted avarice, the taste of yesterdays spilling like seed from stroked cock; it’s here where lovers leap and quarrel, where intentions reef and coral. The sea claims, rejects, reclaims, our brine mirror muddied with the push pull of these throbbing, misgiven hearts. What a bore, bronzing bottoms and bobbing breasts before barbarous breakers. Play along, creaming steaming skin seething to cancer, gambling health for beauty, longevity for youth. Garish desires suckle at the tit of this paradise, mother’s milk a constant yearning culled collectively by the tight grips, the pursed lips, of progress. Build, build, build into oblivion, dance, dance, dance among Phrygian spit gilded by Midas touch and Stygian row, collapse now, breathe and bare. Sunstung, radiant, smoothed, the beholders are many, sated, soothed, eyes lovingly fed, will neither here nor then but ebbing and eddying, pooling to make deep marks on forever shifting sands. Allure is the blessing of a moment, locked into long memory by first tastes and yearned for by all this dying, the cracks in our glass marring our transparency. Looking glass why do you promise anything more than what was? Because incarcerating time for all it has stolen is an addiction.

(at Barceloneta)

Published by Jason Santo on June 16, 2016 | Permalink

Open Streets (Carrer del Tiradors)

Come on all you ghosts. Lurk not in shadow, but sing wild requiem in an ethereal throat that echoes like moonlight off the weathered gray stone of Godhouses. Dreams wither and bloom in the clear dry of evening, reason expiates action, a deft caress, a tongue lash, a glimpse of softer flesh; the weight everlasting a measure of tranquil patience. Greedswirl, lust calderas bubbling under the surface of igneous calm, denizens softshoe their Vulcan urges, dragging on sweet hand-rolled tobacco and draping limbs on chipped benches, voices searching for the breeze, the moon. It’s been this way since Luna began her distant waning, spinning tales of wretched dieties to answer the hungriest of our motives, their great whimsy and folly mirroring the soiled graft and bliss that dirtied hands and souls then, now, forever. Greed keeps bloodlines strong, determined to pass on sinstrength and oh how the night has seen it all on these sweating cobblestone streets. Oh how the scent of our filth sweetens the air, the dog in our ancestry baring teeth and piss-swollen cock to silentscream dominance, only to be caught hollow in the damp of laundered cloth hung above to dry, secrets in the open. So much fire. So much memory. Symbionts culled from the calloused feet of almighties too distracted to reign with terrorflood, desires bathe in little acids, eating away at a world of progress despite those evening whispers. Brick and stone, flesh and bone, fathers intone, our ears deaf to their lessons, our souls drunk on their clenched fists.

at Barcelona, Spain

Published by Jason Santo on June 14, 2016 | Permalink

Cherry Sin

Cherry-dipped sunsets soften with their grenadine punch, calliope keys pressed, whistle-blowing off steam. Truth wins every time, a revolution glowing brilliant as each note played, steam crowding unprepared skies with demand. Be seen, heard. Satisfied melodies ripping through golden hour haze, dripping longing in the boughs of bent tree stems caught in eerie silhouette; how that red tantalizes as a Pamplona beast set loose on comfort, China shop securities shattered. So many pieces left aglimmer, sharp edges hungry to lacerate and spill hot lusts, pried open mouths, thighs. Dreams saunter safely as hands stay pocketed, poise like loose change jangling. It’s a quarter ‘til day’s end, murky beauty seizing light and across the sweet horizon skin cools after the blush. Hush. Unfocused passions are a stain on better faiths, so push that lens west, turn it to hone the burn and walk away while the world’s caught. Fire purges. It’s the only thing hungrier than reason. And the drift of ash lilts in waltz during settling evening, a nocturne under the stars falling like black snow, a hint of sweet stinging air and memory.watch Annabelle: Creation film now

Published by Jason Santo on May 29, 2016 | Permalink