For Awkward insight.

Why are you standing there?
Well I thought I'd show you my record collection.
Oh, cool.
Do you like... um The Beach Boys?
Yeah.
Do you like... Grateful Dead.
Mm Yeah.
Do you like Dylan or Jefferson Airplane?
Yeah, sure.
.
.
******, man!
You did again.
You took too much!
You took too much.


Garrett Johnson

Beginning.

The wounds hold in sultry.
The shaman breathes tightly.
With cerulean colored eyes.
A Luscious handle of the old world.
Tired in admiral skies.
The appearance of truth.
Written in scarlet.
The words that heal in time.




Garrett Johnson.

Ode to being gone.

I was riding o the high.
when the voice sank.
Muddled
& confused.
Reaching from unknown waters.
Beds placed in orders.
& disorders.
Wrapped upon a red vessel.
A girl.
Placed out of Her known waters.
& subtly coughed upon dining room tables.
She the contender.
She the rose no marry.
She the lovely wearing flannels in bed.
& she to touch the flower within your soul.



Garrett Johnson.

When you’ve taken too much mescaline, but stop and think maybe just a little bit more.

Too much info he says.
Too little time.
Too many lines to look over.
Why so much tobacco he says.
Why can’t you stay with us forever they think, feel, and express through all the other emotions.
How bout ya ******* and leave me to my coffee I say.
It’s 3:25 in the morning. I’ve been up to finish a piece about the new development of the “NEXT” atom bomb. The process is heavy but, with the strict drug regimen to give me the somewhat energy to keep my brain kicking I think I can finish it.
Why can’t I just live for once.
Questions.
Questions that cannot be saved for the genocide they take place in.
Overused and over ridden for lost hopes and chances to become anew.
But when you take 5 times too much of peyote, and you start tasting the color yellow.
You then start to think if you'll ever get out.
If you'll ever find the cure for the satanic mess that's occurring on the inside.
Inside the abomination that has crept up the back streets of synapses.
Utterly grooving to the sound of “Like A Rolling Stone” By Bob Dylan.
Sidewalk.
Overpass.
Flag.
Café.
Drink.
This drink sits badly.
Acid.
Flying over melting mountains.
Shimmer.
Swimming through suburbs of death.

Garrett Johnson.

Still around somehow.

You're down when they walk by.
Skulking like crimson.
On your rug.
Treacherous.
So vulnerable.
What a position.
Crying for death.
Seeing what could be seen.
The scene so meloncholy.
But we laughed.
Spitting Pneumonia in noire.
Leaving all things heavy.
N blowin in the wind.


Garrett Johnson.

Plum rd.

Viridian seeking.
Head discovered on chest.
Sage lands awakening.
Glimpses in emerald past.
Mirrored in ivy.
Soil for the river.
Heavenly clouded beads.
Around neck.
A soft hold on it all.




Garrett Johnson.

Nurtured Destruction.

Self Loathing.
In emotion.
Corroded by dawn.
Bare.
Hopeless running.
Water until the sun.
Meets thee eyes.
Left stood under what has been.
Time.
& purpose.
All while slept for the early.
& your lover's loving rise.
For eternity.





Garrett Johnson.

Arrive to leave

Salem.
Asylum.
For all.
Reaching.
Frantic.
Friday.
Evening.
Someday.
Antisocial.
Nev­er.
Rush.
Flash.
Such.
Wandering.
Navigating.
Endless.
Vibrant chaos.
Crusading.
Blum.
Continuos.
Relinquish.
Embraced.
Distorti­on
Within.
Grasp
Taunting.
Disappeared.
In agony.
Collection.
Mural.
Saga.
Certain of.
Past.
Parasite
Of waves.
Confined.
Seeking.
Redemption.


Garrett Johnson & Eleesha Mayo.

Glacial Coffee.

No Home.
Hung over Sideways.
Adventure.
All created mutants.
All pipe thoughts.
Blasted into the universe.
All to be alone.
Like the golden record.
Trying to prove drastic reasons for being alive.
Inside.
The being of life.
All by finding out why by reading today’s newspaper, and sipping a cup of glacial coffee.
Meanwhile I’m also in a car going 70.
On the highway to A certain shop in the middle of a forest in Seattle.
Hold on.
I’ve gotten off track.
I’ll be right back.






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.

Wash the dirt out of my hair.

Fox Academy lowdown.
Stone flannel in the wind.
Killer n a frown.
Hair long on 15th.

Watching the doors in the morning.
Mire more then ever.
over and over tired.
Take sadness for my fever.

There might be a road.
Take off your mask.
I’m scared of every.
Thing that you ask.



Garrett Johnson.

Cafes.
And instrumentals.
Corpses filled with ash and syrup.
Syrup made from a hippie that lives in the flat above me.
Never arrives to confuse me.
Amazing relationship.
Contrasts the mask that covers the realness.
The class that helped **** your demons.
And your soul.
Blues.
Reds.
And yellows.
CLouds most things.
Poets dying in eternal Affliction.
Poets who died for nothing.
Beat the poet.
Real mean poet.
Mean everything to the person inside the poet.
You can find it.
You can grow it.
You don’t know it.
Boil it for safety.
Or not.
Blues bleed into the skull.
Carve with the side that’s dull.
We turn sullen.
Create Poetry that never makes us lonely.
And always makes us lonely.
Conniptions replace the complements.
Turn hate into monuments.
And Love into self hate.
It’s gonna be great.
And always be ****.
Learn from the mistakes.
Take your life.
And miss the blade.
Rope.
Bullet.
Psychedelics.
Hallucinogens.
Genetics that makes us break.
Discover the ******* that are fake.
Concentrate.
Contemplate actions.
Rott through the smoke.
Anxious ridden state.
LIke the **** that makes up the rain.
Conceptualize Sound waves.
And destroy your fate.
Make a smiley face.
Then cry.
I like what you’ve done with the place.
Crawl into your own time and space.
Tired.
Overly tired.
It’s the nights like this that are dreadful.
Terribly stagnant..
A magnet to war.
Maggots.
Loath in fractions.
In places.
With no faces.
No patience.
Static.
Just Static.

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.

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.

Car hood at 1 in the morning.

Sitting at the table.
Quietly.
Smoke rising from the knuckles.
Nicotine masking the scent of oh so wretched tears.
Maddening the area.
The atmosphere.
The uncertain complexity of her flannel shirt layering over the windshield.
Passing all those lovely moments of sharing cigarettes on the car hood at one in the morning.


Garrett Johnson.

All the way there.

60 down the main road.
Throw it all away.
Tossed in the wind like a bag.
And hovers away like the smoke from a cigarette.
The whole lot of  1,304 miles of bliss.
And find that someone that's groovy enough to groove with you.
All the way there.

Searching.

Standing on that edge.
You feel so lonely.
Reaching out in that abyss
So roomy
Distracting with pleasure that told me all your news
Good & bad.
Stuck in an Romeo prison.
Now feeling glad that you lived.
Just to pain yourself.
With needles gauntly feeding you.


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.

A dream I think.

Out of the car.
Up the stairs.
Inside.
Walk around.
There she is.
Talk a min.
Follow.
Get lost.
For even longer.
Been found.
Found a way
Pinkie promise.
For a song.


Garrett Johnson.

A complete unknown.

There it goes again.
Dripping.
Sticking to the walls.
The halls floating with tranquility flowing down.
Silver us.
Silver them.
No good.
Trying.
To be anything that isn’t.
Holding worn ***** boots.
Still.
Holding smoke.
Fingers woven.
Never mind.
It’s too late.



Garrett Johnson.

Leather acid tests.

Wednesday- I'm back, went to San Fran, did some jenkem, I don't recommend, And I didn't make it.
7/4/19- Sat from a far, Watched the fire works alone while talking to my imaginary friend.
Friday- Woke up form an ether stupor, masculine, shot up some of grandma's finest neon soup.
7/7/19 around 5:00 pm- went to the community festival, had a cookie, blasted off into the outer reaches of space with a girl, and a guy.
A few hours later- met my clone.
The day after- Went to Idaho with the girl, made love in a barn, old fashioned rebel style.
7/15/19- Drove back to San Fran in my doctor's space can, Write, write, wrote, write some more.
.
,
.
Very sure we died here.



Garrett Johnson

Something happening in here.

Slow on a side walk.
Chaos does not slow in the streets.
Protest.
People.
Want to fight or ****.
Love or hate.
Agent orange for a leader.
Neutral is extinct.
The poets have flooded.
To help the old understand.
To help the young awake.



Garrett Johnson.

Ode to the most of it all.

Painted
Nation in white.
Rushing to and from the veins of agony.
Rash and amounted with seas of coursed grain.
& fog streamed from the consience waves of thought.
And Affection.


Garrett Johnson.

Rapid Infarction.

What was.
Became through the showering sound of.
Why.
Screamed into oblivion.
The rush.
Stabbed through the psychedelic spiral.
& vomited upon from the mahogany floor.
Crashed and wedded in embrace.
Held by wind from the creak.
The silence.
The intamacy.
Only to be welded into nothing.
But the field of reeds to keep company.



Garrett Johnson.

Streets.
Light poles.
Potholes.
Distortion.
Something to be proud of.
Truth to be lies.
Someone.
Please someone.
Standing in back alley.
Collecting runoff water from gutter above.
At 4 it gets dark.
Ride bicycle around.
No one around.
Lay in the street as rain floats to my face from above.
The clouds are strangers.
But the mist has won.
And i’m here all alone.
In the street.
Going past the pop-art store.
The windows turn.
The atoms twist.
My eyes hug the sky.
Wandering the confines of my brain.
Searching.
For her I cannot promise to hide.
And like the calmness over the air.
I fall one again.

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

Bouncing light shows.

O.
Ov.
Ove.
Over.
Overd.
Overdr.
Overdri.
Overdriv.
Overd­rive.
Yes.
A little Interstellar Overdrive.



Garrett Johnson

Laurel Canyon blues.

Soft spoken.
As I listen to the chorus In her eyes.
She plays in the prison of Rhythm & rhyme.
& I who has lost the night to time.
Watching the form of smile in a light.
Matte.
Sat reading the arrangements.
Presented on the face.
As she sang Tell me why.
A Young song for a young soul.



Garrett Johnson.

Song 12.

I'm going to the store.
Pick up some cigs.
Get a Poster of Uma Thurman.
A record by The Smiths.
Morrisey.
Get a milk shake.
you can share it with me.




Garrett Johnson.

Orange Victoria.

Before friday- ate some thorn pizza, smoke, watched some Doc Who.
Friday- battled with an unconscious ghost, hosted a party for most of my guests, one person came.
Yesterday- walked to the store, stepped in hot tar, got blisters under my fingernails.
Last night- soaked my blisters in psilocybin, saw Jim Morrison.
The morning after- woke up at 7, played on the guitar, had a smoke, had another smoke, watched the X-files.
Today’s evening- Stood in the same place for a while, I’m still here somehow, smoke, dishwasher, Lost my real leg in a fire.
Tomorrow- wrote all about it.
.
.
Well I guess I’m doing fine.






Garrett Johnson.

Letters to nobody.

Sorry for the mess.
I don’t know how to say.
What to say.
The lavender fields are choking me.
Leaves seeping into me.
Hyacinth canopy.
Rusting couch.
Could’ve said ouch.
Before the lavender.
******* Lavender.
I fathomed her.
Free murderers for rent.
I’ll take one.
I am one.
I killed myself.
Didn’t mean to melt.
Like myself.
Hate myself.
Being someone else.
Myself.
My self.
On the shelf.
Elf for Halloween.
She was.
There.
Here.
Fortney.
Blanket Express.
What a guess.
Sleepy Stress.
Lovely dress.
Live for meh.
Eat some veggies.
Smoke in the tub.
Don’t count on me.
Can’t have fun.
Slippers on feet.
Cartoon drawings.
Don’t go to prom.
Didn’t go to prom.
Didn’t walk.
Just picked it up.
Threw it up.
Didn’t come down.




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.

Why should I care.

It's another light house.
It's another light house.
One to **** your alliance.
On the front door.
Is the next level of violence.
The next terror of silence turn around.
Your beautiful with aliveness.
Quiet and alone tonight.
Nothing else to be.
Nothing else to see or hear.
There it was.
There it went.
Gone.
I don't.



Garrett Johnson.

Love holding soul spirit.
No way out alive.
Terrified.
Only until dawn we can run away.
Hold you in my arms.
Corner of brain to wallow in.
Willows weeping.
Time is what we live in.
As everyday was the last.
The End.
Pictures to haunt for.
7 miles.
To town.
These fields we divide.
Never.
Inside we must Live.
Live.
Beautiful Friend.
Only Friend.
Hold my realm of love.
Kiss it with solace.
Tangled in sheets.
Shy and delicate.
For the order of disorder.
I tell to *******.
Is eroding.
And we’re in the lagoon.
Just Floating.
We become the dwellers of our pleasure.

To me.

If you are the one who called my grandma saying I'm In Seattle.
I understand your style.
You've traveled 1,339.6 miles.
To one of my fav places.
Using a payphone.
Why?
I don't know.
Just to **** with me?
Maybe.
(I would like to talk, but if you Are my clone we might be talking right now)…..

Garrett Johnson.

Broke my head stepping on some air.

I knew better.
But I don’t know better.
The sound is always closed off.
But I can hear those thoughts again.
Whispering n screaming.
Then close to a greying calm
Like having a waltzy reaction.
To something good.
Having no place around here.
Leave because I have nothing else to do.
But read and sing in some erratical nervous psychedelia.



Garrett Johnson.

Moonlight on her sweater.

Alex took a 3rd.
Shot in her head.
Didn't know any better
She pins the 44 at the wall.
Skulking at the rain.
Tired of the poor of it all
The lie of the weather man.
The azure wind in her ears.
Words.
Saying that ran.
Behind the fears.
Left only foam from her mouth n her toes in the sand.



Garrett Johnson.

Oct 15, 66.

One of those nights.
Where the air is slick.
Where everything can be heard from miles away.
Like a tremolo stealthing it’s way around.
From every knock from door.
From every word from lip.
Form every star deciding to die in a super nova.
You know.
Those nights.
Sure I do.
No.
No you don’t.



Garrett Johnson.

Only but the road.

With the soda sauce.
Embrace at the space needle.
And playing Neil Young on the corner.
She gets it all.
& owes none.
High parked at a stop off in Gold Bar.
Sleep in the back.
So close.
A gypsy nightmare is just a dream.
Wake to an acoustic cry.
Subtlety in early air.
We slow dance to sounds of Donovan.
And feel the feel that felt it all.



Garrett Johnson

Under the elements.
Scarcely relevant to everything in the bag.
It’s a drag he died.
Not really.
It’s not too bad.
Don’t be sad.
Grab the nonsense.
Make it into a movie.
Cry.
And Cry.
Until you're under the moon.
It makes your room.
Builds you a house.
The house you live in for ten years.
And share moments of isolation.
Let your fears run with you.
Then ****** them.
Clean and swift.
Kills that fit the description of the subscription pill bottle.
Pain.
Hands that throttle the life away.
Don’t mean to go this way.
You only live once.
You lived for eternity.
And never existed.
That very much hurts.
Numb.
Brain dead.
Waste away.
Stay in bed.
Dance in the woods.
Sing in your head.
It’s never too late.
There’s joys to be fed.
Lock your truths and lies away.
Pretend that they’re worth something.
Pretend that you’re worth something.
Pull the covers over your face.
Your Tears don’t belong here.
Wintertime love.
So warm and cozy.
Mosey on down to the general store.
Question those that don’t know the half of it.
Half of what your saying.
Or where you’re going.
Who are you talking to.
There’s nobody there.
Hallucinations.
Discover Nations.
Dictations.
And riddles.
Flashbacks of Nam.
Korea.
Germany.
France.
Japan.
Gettysburg.
Realisations that you don’t fit the Piece.
You keep the peace.
But have wonders.
Wander throughout doubt.
Create something meaningful.
And give it to a friend.
Like Morrison said.
This Is The End.

Remembered best.

Conspired in listful site.
Lay upon frozen forgoing lake.
Seize in the night.
For embrace of lips of world.
Intertwined.
Only imagined.
In the mist blue grasping through.
The pines.
Glisten of eyes.
Mirrored in soft pyro
She lay.
Wrapped.
In nothing but amethyst wools.
Playing the 6 string.
She sleeps to the tune.
In easiness of the early brake of new.


Garrett Johnson

Raising hell on the inside.

Languid surfing waves in village company.
Sifting.
Locks on intimate encounters.
Terrified.
Stupefied.
As if she said everything just to make me happy.
I couldn’t be.
Not really.
I didn’t speak.
Only stare at the curves of her lips.
Leaving myself to come up with all the details.
In my mind to conjure the cure to my own loneliness.
Or wander aimlessly.
All along the streets.
Gutters of city outskirts.
Town air clears the lungs.
Despair around every corner.
Lurking like the creature from the black lagoon.
I’m Travis Bickle in my world of all things.
Lonely.
I’ve given up all my possessions.
I’ve moved into run down van that has one headlight.
Half a bumper.
And great steering.
I’ve thrown out all my furniture and have ****** in the street along with all the other materialistic things in my life.
I can’t stand waking up in the morning and seeing myself loath in my troubles.
I can ******* own stress come pouring out of the pores of my ******* skin.
But it all reminds me of the true reminder of my future.
THAT I’M GOING TO die.

Garrett Johnson

Wired into a trip.
That was the fatal trip.
Around consciousness
Giving a thought to the hook realities that were lying
For all the people who took acid.
Who buy Peace and Understanding for loss and failure
What took down illusion of a whole life-style.
Create a generation of seekers who understood the Culture.
Desperate assumption tending the end of the tunnel.
The continuous evolution of human emptiness.
The relapse of a civilization under rubble from the world that crashed down around them.
Falling in a well of colored rain.
Charcoal drawings on the well walls.
Floating to the top of the bridge.
The bridge of ash that sunk to the depths of less than want.
The hate of people that kick the **** out of the caves of the structure inside.
Decisions of the inner phantom.
The inner exhibit.
Execution of the alienessness.
Paint the peace with ash leaves.
Then end up in Woody Creek.


Garrett Johnson.

Odium.

Wonders in Asher night.
Oh won’t you come see me Mary Read.
For the Alabaster is polite.
And the drink *****.
No copper of coin and coincidence well played.
Unlike thee.
To not show the softness of tough.
Or show the heather skies color.
And to have no answer for the teal engraved in the eyes.



Garrett Johnson.

Like Paper cuts do.

I guess I wanted to know.
But I knew.
How so.
I mean...I guess that's how I always felt.
About those eyes.
Peering from across the room.



Garrett Johnson.

****** eyes (the best kind)

Am I the head aches.
Am I the heart racing from the rush.
Am I.
The ****** eyes I received from Kissing her.
Am I.
The ***** that came after the tremolo.
Am I the bullet that almost came.
Am I.
Am I.
So tired.





Garrett Johnson

Tracing your own crime scene...p.s you did it.

It’s pretty clear to turn tail and run.
When you’re on top of the world like Al Jolson.
And then crash like Syd Barrett.
Yelling at the clone on the wall.
“******* SWINE...HOW COULD YOU!?”.
IDiot.
The tub water has drowned the floor.
You’re long gone with golden hair.
Taking all the acid tabs, mescaline, ether, bloodleaf letters, and the small bottle of goldbond lotion.
“How dare you” I ask.
Coursing with enraged grief.
I feel it; the intense measure if deterioration.
Taking its time skipping along side the sounds of Octopus by the man himself.
All while you melt into the typewriter’s ink.
Unable to walk as you would fall into the infinite muck.
“How do you leave” you ask.
“HANG IN THERE!” I yell.
Why I am I yelling.
I didn’t think this was a side effect.
I can hear just fine.
“****! Who turned off the lights!?”.
“Buddy! You gotta leave now” someone behind me gracefully said.
“What do mean, I just got here!”.
“Feller, you’ve been here for about five hours now, and I think it’s best if you went home”.
MY GOD!.
How long was I in that terribly fascinating state.
What had gone on was to be decided by for the entire variety of the heavy drugs that were seducing the situation.
Why didn’t they kick me out in the first ten minutes I was there.
There must of been a slow start...Then sped up near the end.
But how the hell would I know.
I was told I had been there for five hours and counting.
When I thought I had just sat down from taking a ****.
“Jerry, How are you?”. I asked.
.
.
.
“That’s for you to decide, man”



Garrett Johnson.

For you.

You take off your ghostly dress.
You sell it to the baker who's new.
You look forth, back and around me.
Even As I stand next to you.
You're in slumber on the rug in the lobby.
You're coffee lips they seem down.
But I can see your intentions.
Even with your head to the ground.
So there you stand in the corner of the room.
With blanketed sound.
Of rain and Falling neon.
As you remember to turn around.
Here you are walking to me
Placing your ether hand.
To the place.
You wish a kiss will land.


Garrett Johnson.