Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The threat song undulates like a to-term child in the womb, its definition complete, lyrics like limbs scraping from inside, punching and kicking for birth. Hold it in. That fire and melody, that rhythm of the darkness, the thudding black purge that desires to evacuate, needs escape. Move and sway under new moon struggle, the shred of pitch appointing moments with discordant ringing. Is there someone lending voice to such longing, someone aware of this failed aspect lurching low in morning like a welping mutt struck and rib-broken under the fierce boot of ardor? Fucking dog, pained and dragging the filth of hunger into a pantheon of scabrous loathing; the weak voice pleading, needing, seeding the indecent compromise of well-wishing and fawned platitudes that gurgle up instead of the bile burning at the back of the throat. Kick. Bring that hurt and let the funereal dirge of Hades echo down shadow-lined hallways that flit and shudder in twilight hope swept up by the faithless wind of night’s birth. Arisen, the child of desecration and tear-stained restraint cries in the shrill language of rage; the torment of choked breath a chorus of fetid harmony. Delivery a release, the joy of an inferno is brief, blistering catharsis that writhes and screams; quickly haunted by the cold ash of affliction.


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