Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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These chambers hollow, the thump of a hanged man’s heart stalls the arid char of spent joy in a cursed kingdom. Gray. The failure of black and white. An alleged victim, now drunk with bliss, sits as queen on throne. Oh how it was easy to believe, being the jester of the court, those extravagant promises; spun fictions of oceans and stars and magnificent destinies so strong that the sun itself was pulled to horizon by the gravity of their ardor. What shit. What lazily spilled eloquence, feather words ¬†adrift on thin winds strong enough to only bring sweet sentiments to ear. Weight missing. Significance absent. Love never in action or on display, but a secret, a trap door in the grand castle of a loathed King never challenged. And that lady protecting, cherishing, phallating but then quietly revolting. Such lies! What extra padding for the princess so she doesn’t feel that pea of truth boring its way into her back, her listless whimsy a call for attention, breasts bared and such pretty wardrobe tossed to the corner of his chamber. Vulnerability a show. Soft flesh wet in the silver damp of this haunted keep and oh the shaking, quaking, foresaken hands of the fool reaching for tenderness and autonomy. No rule. The swirl of pulsing hunger a mist obscuring truth, fine rain in a still frame and the only place where this adoration is allowed to exist, frozen, momentary. Hold on here and then let go, oh stubborn joker, for the punchline is forever you. Don’t you see? The king returns to those chambers again and again with his dedicated in tow; his allegedly tortured captor fed such fattening comfort but oh so wistful for the love of that low, drowning joke waiting, longing outside; thick tendrils of misery surrounding his limbs like prison shackles. Ah the beautiful romance of pain. Such an intoxicating spirit to sip from an adorned chalice, the finest vintage of suffering making her every compromise bearable. May that cup run dry. May the fog instead swallow the cracked-heart longing that has entertained for so long, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of ashen understanding that he escaped; that he learned better than to perform the same trick again. (at A Joker’s Lesson)

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