Don’t suspect a thing bud.

Grandma has the soup.
Grandma has the cigarettes.
Grandma has the guns in the shed.
Why the hell would you think that.


Garrett Johnson.

Hallow Canvas.

You will have seen it shut.
Traumatized.
Mortified.
In muck.
Realizing it's the only combatant of it's astronaut collection.
The real slow of the slow.
Hired to build a balloon palace in plastic.
Wavering.
Hovering in total silence.
Though it doesn't know any better.
Still.
You cut it's head off.
Taste the innards.
Tastes like cinnamon on a yellow rustic cup.
I think it's going to be ok.
We just need a little hug.


Garrett Johnson.

Breeze so lovely.

The chair.
The wall.
The air.
The floor.
Despair.
Nothing more.
The blankets.
The soreness.
The aches.
The blankness.
The wants.
The needs.
Flowers and weeds.
But ******* the breeze is so lovely



Garrett Johnson.

Hunter Thompson Blues.

Corpse.
One in a black room.
Aoxomoxoa.
Plays again.
And again.
The voices.
The.
Words.
Snap out of it man.
Oh.
What is this.



Garrett Johnson.

Airplane cig.

You look at her.
Who looks at you.
Who looks at him.
Looking at his drink.
But also looks at you.
Then looks at you again.
You then look at her.
Who looks you.
Who looks at her.
Who looks at you.
Who is looking at her shirt.
Who thinks you like her shirt.
Which you do.
And her.
Who looks at you.
And smiles.



Garrett Johnson.

Dream of all time.

Immaculate in the early hours.
The roads.
Lit with death.
Heavenly soft.
Lips.
On cheek.
Regretless.
Low eyes in the slow air.
Oh how lovely the sky.
Misty.
With all the love to show for it.



Garrett Johnson

Inquietude Drachma.

Saturday morning- Repaired by a smile, Found a leg in my cereal, took a walk.
Saturday night- Used a headphone splitter, Starred into the eyes of a spiral, and Died.
Sunday morning- Woke in an infinite haze, visited Saturn on a surf board, and drank some cold lava with the girl across the street.
Sunday night- probably die again, Listen to Pink Floyd, and write this down.
down.
down.


Garrett Johnson.