AFTER THE MISFITS SHOW

danced last night with a dead girl

we sang like vicious dogs

her chainsaw teeth undid me

my guts fell in the sink

 

baptized me in vodka

resurrected me from filth

fucked me like a demon

then the angel flew away

 

SOMETHING’S FISHY

my tongue feels rough like alligator skin

my mouth tastes saline like estuary mud

my catfish lips cry heron songs

my head has become a swamp

 

and you just stand there

sipping expensive beer

fishing my eyes

for answers

 

 

MOMENT CRACKS

rosy allemande with landscaped housewives

sparkle ball sage-step softened to a thump

pie pearls happy to be marbled with sweet butter

vanilla harmless sticky clutch, plus an awkward jerk

-

flower shelled suburbanite spice rack vitality

cinnamon sweat pig rodeo slam

dummy hand stagecraft idling in the hot mix

actors flourish (sizzle-pop) the spotlight saucepan set

-

polished gods cook media-hyped wisdom of generations

rubber decontaminates the increased burning wrong

blended nerves and standard aches devein the curled agenda

but death and fuck both taste like heaven until the moment cracks

 

 

ZANG! ZOOM! DING! THUMP!

watch me whirl my magic stick

(as wand simply seems too feminine a word for me)

and

piss a cartoon utopia

(like a Disneyed out Shangri-La or whatever)

 

untie the ends of sausage link days . . .

(low sodium of course)

ornamental promises

(no, not oriental promiscuity)

strung as fluffy decorations

(paper dolls, tinsel, etc.)

between cryptic dreaming

and basements filled with dead saints

(or were they ever alive to begin with?)

 

roll away the silver masque

and see

I am a diseased dumpster-cat

(a leukemic rabid flea-ridden feline fuck)

who claws strangers into confetti

and lacks the control needed to keep

from mating with friends

(and enemies if they’ll lie still long enough)

 

and I sleep in dark worthless cylinders

and dine on death

(or maybe just watch television and eat fish sticks)

(R.G. Johnson is a big scary weirdo who lives in the Piney Woods of East Texas. He writes poetry, stories and songs that he reads and sings to trees and spiders. He should be considered armed and dangerous. He has most recently been published or has been approved for publication in Paradigm Journal, Poetry Monthly International, Poetry 2.0, Black-Listed Magazine, Asphodel Madness, Gutter Eloquence, The Clockwise Cat and Negative Suck.)