Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The dawn chorus shrilly beat back the blanket of sleep, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Blades of morning sun sliced through birdsong, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. The humid air was queasy with vinegar woe, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. The rain threatened but never did come, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting.

What a crime these dreams of tattered lust preach, their gospel echoes in a desert keep. The arid morality of a fuck and moan, the bleeding heart stopped and turned to stone. Wherever did the old faith go? But down to Hell where sex burns slow.

The shallow hours couldn’t catch full blame, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. The salt of her skin still stinging this tongue, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Deliverance from boredom without dollars pinched out, and ruby sat waiting, Ruby sat wanting. No money changing hands in covert accounts, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting.

Flesh kept wet in the thick night’s breath, always a wish for little tastes of death. The climbing urge to curl into one. The final act, the players now done. Sleep came quick despite the world’s turning and that convex sin that set the garden burning.

Summer guests sing high like cricket legs beating, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Sipping the divine as hours blacked out time, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. Moonless kingdoms crumbling beneath dawn’s rage, and ruby sat waiting. Ruby sat wanting. A glass of wine and three hundreds left behind, proved ruby had waited. Ruby had wanted.

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