- Post By: Jason Santo
- Date:
- Category: Uncategorized
- Tags: bedtime, creativewriting, drunk, dumb, fiction, flashfiction, igpoems, igpoets, igwriters, instawriter, killitwithalcohol, microfiction, mobileartistry, poem, poet, poetic, poetry, poetsofig, shortstory, sick, story, storyteller, vino, wine, writer, writersofig, writing
The house is a Venus flytrap and you’re the buzz, buzz, buzzing interloper land, land, landing on the isle of accordion bliss, contracting and expanding with notes as discordant as the offkey hymnal of an unrequited heart. Oh and how that beats! That thumping cauldron of witch tit sorcery that swirls and eddies with the assertive melancholy of the wart-nosed whore, legs spread and curse spilling like the fine juice of desire that beckons like a drum in the woods. Boom, boom, booming with the bass of unrepentant longing. She hath deemed thee worthy, such a whore-hearted fool! And you will lap at the swollen clit of vague affection, the undulating bliss of concurrent ardor, and where is it coming from? The mirror? The spilled red of a lactating grape? The pinched hollow of endless tears staining cheeks, tissue, the cluttered worry of tomorrow? Goddamn. What a sham. What remarkable film flam, cracking the dam as one plunders oh! Who I am! The man! The calliope denizen and folded hand. Been there done that, in the nude, so rude. But fuck it. No words have to make sense to the lost because they’re just breadcrumbs snatched up by the beasts in the wild, devoured promises and declarations shit into the bush; pages of deciduous belief shed and streaked with defecated hope. And whatever belief had spun away like true North on a broken compass. Wander and cry, drunk fool. Original sin guarantees nothing works, the heart an apple missing swallowed trust, the snake unfurling like awakened lust. Eden looms distantly, a memory shrouded in fog, dreams of comfort and belonging curdling in the mind as if spoiled milk in a roiling stomach. This place eats you alive, spitting out faith like bone. Stop mourning succulent ideals. All they ever did was fatten you for the slaughter.
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