Ode to her flannel shirt.

The dark horse screams.
The water mimics me.
The sunlight keeps us clean.
The night time keeps us lean
For what.
Inside of me?



Garrett Johnson.

Something.

The qualling moldwarp seeps.
Crude and distinguished.
Outcasted.
For and lived full.
Of rot in the crimson wave.
Veined
And insecure.
No high or lowering end.
No result in castled eyes.
Or mothered neutrons of the sick.
Sick.
So.
So.
Sick.
Too sick to rest.
Been gone and too many killed by thought.
By the drowning of the subliminal courage.
By the spinal departure in the sands.
And without welcoming of the azure.
Footprinted only to be pulled into red.
And entombed into onyx.
Never to receive the final wail of grief.


Garrett Johnson.

One.

Dead.
It stands.
Illustrated
For nothing.
Too nothing.
In the isle.
Of Loath.
And weeping to the ecstasy.
That shown once before.
The crystal eyed.
Slept none.
Cabin soft.
Escape.
Playing mindful.
Collage of inner chaos.
Volume languid.
Unreal.
Illusion
It thinks to an eroding tone.
And still present when it leaves.


Garrett Johnson.

Said to be said.

Grime slapped into verses.
Grabbed by infinity.
A lonely grasp.
Swollen faced security.
To self destruction.
Meadowed in suicide seating.
Think of her often.
To leave and ride eternity.



Garrett Johnson.

Evening Motion Sickness

Twas for the river that I think of you.
About that agony smile.
The denim closing stars following as we walk to "Fourth time Around".
Those grey soaked fingers.
The curls of brown blanketed.
The easy clouded stride.
That soft sight peaking back like film.
The grasp in grasp.
That defying glide from the lips.
The silent dance from the waist.
So wicked.
The further air.
The fruitful chaos.
And the watery time known before decay.



Garrett Johnson.

Museum.

Once again it crumbles in solitude.
Mourn weeping groan.
Please don't bring it here.
It only causes happiness.
Thick and shadow showering sound.
Like the sick child.
No more.
No more.


Garrett Johnson

Angular relapse.

Like a tongue on a hot pipe.
Gets blistered.
Boils in the star in the sky.
And pops.
Pus.
Picking up even the stongest bones crunching.
The whimper.
The moonlight.
The **** in the head that fries.
Pretend to even act.
Like the little voice beating between the ears.
Meaning nothing and everything.
For everyone and Nobody.
But stills crawls.
Back into an acidic center.
Home that could never be home
And flushed into. . . What be formed into silent ends.


Garrett Johnson.