Sold paintings.
Sold for nonsense.
***** armchair leg.
Reclusive.
Brought down.
Like they do to most of them.
Blood drop *******.
Raining cigarettes.
On empty dance floor.
We sway.
Too many circles.
Back facing gutter.
Las vegas strip.
Back of cotton field.
Frenzy doing ******.
Oh! My heroine has come to save me from this flash of darkness.
Take away.
Hand it back.
Back of neck.
Saying kiss here.
No promises.
No beginnings.
No real feelings.
Only travel.
Hand-me down emptiness.
SIlver shoe.
Print off.
High two.
To infinity and stop right there.
Splinter.
Plastic watch.
Scotland.
Mireland.
Sinking.
Sprite pop.
Soda tone.
Out of paint.
Quiet please.
I can hear my thoughts.
Don’t be a square.
Welcome to the fair.
Do you have some tape.
Laughter leads to crying.
Crying leads to smiling.
The perfect circle.


Garrett Johnson.

Age.
Free roaming.
Free foaming at the nose.
Mouth with a miss of courage.
Study hard to keep my position of being the coolest hobo.
I’ll collect your junk/my canvases on Fridays.
Saturdays.
Sundays.
Mondays.
Tuesdays.
And Wednesdays.
Too busy to care.
Too busy to be busy.
Busy feet lead me to some road outside a busy city.
Leading to purity.
Petrified.
Floating over a prairie somewhere in Idaho.
It’s my own private one.
Once in awhile I.
Remember.
Something someone said sometime ago.
I remember it but I don’t.
Not really.
I’ll be back.
Out getting ribs.
I’m back.
My ears hurt.
My ears hurt.
Please stop.
Discrete.
Please keep it this way.


Garrett Johnson.

Spots.
Magazines.
All I understood was that you’re portuguese.
Blasting sand bags on scuba tunnels.
On the rocks purified.
Mermafied.
Terrified.
Outrageous.
Daily dose of turpentine.
Divided by the news.
Reel.
Real.
And unwind.
Time to take your pills.
I don’t want those pills.
Take you codger pills you old retched.
What.
I’m Dead.
I’ll just have a glass of water.
Oh I’m dead too.
Rows.
Of Rosemary.
Above what stood once before.
Below.
We’re getting lower.
Even.
Lower now.
Try to.
Hold on.
Almost at the.
Bottom.
Of.
The.
P.                            Garrett Johnson.

I want to go somewhere no one can find me.
Go somewhere where nothing is defining.
Read and write poetry out loud to or with some one who will actually listen.
Someone who understands.
Do nothing but watch and listen.
Paint our own Jean Michel Basquiat or Jackson ******* paintings while listening to records of all sounds around the world.
Leave the doors open to the surrounding woods.
To the small town down the road a few miles.
Lay on a blanket under some trees.
Plant a tree.
For I feel as if I'm losing my mind cooped up in a room where barely any moonlight could reach me.
I want leave.
Go far away.
Start all over.
But bring her with me.
I'd rather live in Greenwich than live in this suburban masked waste land where parents go to live out the rest of their land lives.
******* any where but here.
*******.
Any where.

Garrett Johnson.

He stood watching.
From his cool wooden porch.
Groovy as it seemed.
He pays not attention to the half naked girl besides him.
He's quiet.
He lights a smoke.
Blinks his eyes.
He's petrified.
Blinks again.
Looks to the girl.
Gives a light kiss upon her cheek.
He leaves.
Still groovy it seems.
Groovy it is.
Out here.
The beings are calm with ease.
Nothing perfect.
Never perfect.
Nothing, and all to hide.
The fabulous ecstasy glides.
He reaches the beach.
He's stopped.
At the edge he looks down.
reflection inside retrospection.
Inside reflection inside reflection.
Inside reflected reflection.
I would consider that an echo chamber with no sound.
He digs.
He lights a smoke.
Then walks.
I need a new friend.
A shindig around the corner.
Everyone there.
So is the girl.
Break on through she says.
Jeweled lights.
Cloth, and beads.
Waving.
Crying.
Hair hovering.
Feathers.
hands locking.
Rivering through the brain.
Everybody knows yer name.
He's the one to send flowers to all around.
He's you.
Me.
I.
Him.
He lights another smoke, and walks.

Garrett Johnson

Washing the destruction in drum fire.
Insolent edges on this here blade.
Enough to cut down all veins.
Roots.
From mercury covered arm.
Fluids on the carpet.
Blankets.
On grass.
Ground.
Liveliness.
The forgotten transaction.
From autumn night.
66.
On apartment rug.
New York.
Flashback.
Piano keys on ballad of a thin man.
Really ties the room together.
At least that’s what I thought.
I open the door.
To speak to the clone on the wall.
Pure water on glass.
Half thinks to the movie tickets.
You’re tearing me apart.
What a rebel he is.
What a man, a man could be, with little time to be him.
Sis.
What a little girl, a little girl could be with little time to be her.
What is this.
Who is this.
Why is this dying.
Every distortion for the throat.
No safe insurance.
All for the lonely.
One too many mornings.
With the bathtub blues.
Only place to sleep.
No time for a bed.
Cigarettes and Strawberries.
Hyacinth.
All around in Hyacinth.
Hyacinth garden for the discarded.
A trip on sadness.
Or a void for eternity


Garrett Johnson.

Hard Rain.

Spheric drops on the glum face of midnight.
Nightly drinks by self.
Self Destructing acidicly.
Dinning.
Dying soldierly.
Strict concentration.
By the tears.
Confused in mirrored shadows.
With a tint of peppermint.
Ease back thy silk collection from face.
Intimate gathered embrace.
Under liquid flow of haze.
Blue in thee.
Eyes in slumber casings.
Alieness mornings in caves.
Tavern moonlight from lamp.
Sideways blankets backwards.
On satin grass of upward walls.
Languid.
Sensitive.
Dreams on clear land.
A lone shelter sits.
Corner dimm’d ***.
Blue salted sands wandered coast.
Turquoise sadness.
Stand on crystal blackness beneath.
Lowest of low.
Valley.
Subatomic chaos.
Within chaos itself.
Ones self to end on a metaphorical sea of clarity.