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I Am Santo

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This is graceless,
A heart made of ash
Reduced by the fanned flames
Of self hatred
And the inferno of
A loathed mirror.
How can it not be mud
When mixed
In waters of forgiveness?
Siphoned whoa,
The guilty thirst for kindness
As verdant leaves cup
For early morning rain
A gray sky delivering bounty
Alluding to certain heavens
Where the drip, drip, drip
Allows thr parched a sip
And deems unkempt worthiness,
A runoff spilling down
Lips, chin and chest
Searching for the heat
Of a tugging heart
Pulling at the edges of forfeit
And instead discovering
The rising distraction of sex,
That rigid stand-in
For the swept up refuse
Charred in countless
Self-started fires.
Oh this match has done gone
And expired
Before igniting a hint of
Long-lasting ardor.
But there were enough smiles
To grant that pitter-patter
Of sweat and release;
A warm flow of
Frenzied body whitewater
That stings the tongue
But suffers in the sticky resin
Of charcoal belief.
How black is this night?
It never knew day.
And the land is dry.
The land never knew rain.
The invective kicks up again,
Blast furnace winds
From lungs and chords
In solemn vibrato,
Never sotto voce
But forte,
A scream above ever gentle wet
Tearing through throat
And lips trembling
For kisses,
Oh die, starshine fool.
Too hot to burn for long
The light hits welcoming eyes
So long after the oxygen fled;
So long after astral loneliness
Choked belief
Right out of the bright,
Marrying it to the vacuum,
Marrying it to the endless void.
And whose hands seized
The bruise-laden neck
Of a fallen star?
These hands.
These crooked, dead hands
Stained with carbon clumsy
And atrophied into claws
As the spat-sung bile
Of reflected derision
Echo in the infinite dry
Of celestial loss.


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