COME TO MY ROOM R.G. JOHNSON

TEN PAGES PRESS

COME TO MY ROOM by R.G. Johnson © 2011 Ten Pages Press http://tenpagespress.wordpress.com

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Some of these poems previously appeared in Black-Listed Magazine, Red Boot and Aberrant Journal.

precious pricks (I) I am giving away my soul one delicious syllable at a time. take a bite. you'll gain some of my powers. jump in! the fire is delightful. we'll burn together like a real family with an alcoholic ghost-dad, a verbally abusive mother-beast and a dead vacuum cleaner salesman decaying slowly in the trunk of a rusty hotrod dream that sleeps in a lovely nook in the trees where dishonored roses go to commit suicide. (II) and, sometimes, by the light of the bong, I’ll sit thoughtfully, watch wounds become scars, and wish we weren’t so damn normal. (III) each precious prick is another starlight stitch in this masterfully embroidered paradise. (IV) wanna come into my room and watch me bleed a symphony? I'm the best at it!

pretty loss (or) ugly psalm put your dirty finger in my glorious flaw and <<>> hurt me by accident ////////////// hide that filth! hurry!/// / ////////////

(cracked handshake or awkward sexual tampering?)

feel my human imperfection squirm like a sunburned earthworm in your stony palm o my mystic hole (((0))) echoed from swampy bottoms (or some other strange internal region I’ve never seen in person) because, loss is always easier to shoulder when a fellow loser supports the weight of the other end of the new black coffin (or off-whitish hand-me-down cradle) (oh Lord! Lord. Lord?) tattooed faces of the smiling dead clutter the Cellophane epidermis of my feral soul clearly, I’m STAINED what fixes something made broken?

Amen? underground music scene I wish that blackbird knew my name, so he could write a blues song about me. I wish I knew that blackbird’s name, so I could tell everyone about my favorite musician. these are the perils of underground tastes.

personal pan-apocalypse ancient grey faces of a thousand fallen angels roll around in my glass skull like metaphysical gumballs. my pen dances to the darkness with midnight owls who sport bellies full of plump field mice saints and selfrighteous laughter. without warning, the old iron machinery roars to life. nothing beautiful will survive the onslaught except you.

Nightmare Soup Served Sideways

I Now, this chainsaw rainbow bleeds black tar into a field of U-pick strawberries. Everything the muck touches screams out all colors, wilts to monochrome flaccidity and dies with a final cloddrop thud. I feel my eyes melting in their sockets, and my ears grab hard for comfort-sounds that are not there to be heard. There is a little girl running toward me, arms outstretched, pink dress splattered with thick blue fear. I try, but can’t reach her in time. …..resuming windows…. II I wake from the dream to find Satan dressed in nothing but my best Misfits trucker hat. He stands shamelessly on the end of my bed, drunkenly sings a Lynyrd Skynyrd song and furiously masturbates. Another night of sitting up to wonder what’s wrong with me won’t help anything. So, I sternly ask him to keep it down and pull the Scooby-Doo pillow over my pulsating head. ….R.E.M. loading… III As expected, a giant Buddha with huge warrior moth wings chokes me, and demands that I have a piece of wedding cake hidden in my soul. He really seems to want it, but I see you standing behind him; whispering garbled hatred into his childish ear. Somehow, I knew you were involved. And, you still owe me that fifty bucks, too, you rotten bastard. …..syntax error…..retry?

icebreaker rise and roar! through pulsing veins, chipped teeth, throbby purple uvulas. war-eyes like yawning lions; molten metal thoughts unleashed. show me your skinless beast dance. shatter the skyline with monstrous yawp-ruckuses, fiery mane frames the shiny gun barrel nucleus of calloused whores, claws slash the polluted air of savage perfection. bruises paint timelines, long piano fingers stroke the hard god-jaws of righteous destruction. our naked blasts streak like comets, venomous tongues jut through soft tropical scenery and flesh dissolves on lie-splattered crosses. now that our stone-faced manners have fallen like filthy torn flags on the red-stained battlefield, the conversation can begin.

temptation she wants to fuck my dragon, and leave my lamb in ashes. “your darkness tastes like fiery flight,” she whispers, her cherub face as smooth and pale as ivory, and perched like a bloodthirsty gargoyle upon her dainty blue/white neck. spiritual snake-tongue flickers about for a scent of the heretical confections that swim beneath my quivered surface. “I see you just like that,” she says, “the steam of lust’s hunger escaping through your bared teeth, your shiny black scales draped over my trembled nude remains. you’re like that fateful stream to which Ophelia fed her relentless ache, just waiting for me to leap onto your jagged rocks and murk your ancient clarity with my crimson filth.” I envision her impaled on a ritualistic bone spear gasping for the last of her childish purity, covered in flower petals glued to her with gore, anxious to sacrifice herself to the demon of mercy she has carved from her warped hopes that my intentions are as foul as her own. if I stare into this comely disaster long enough, I may become the ravenous beast for whom she pines, prepared to defile a vulnerable dream of carnal mystery and suck the sweet marrow from her masticated soul. she wants to fuck my dragon, and leave my lamb in ashes. I have gasoline bile welling up in my gullet. perhaps I could just give her a taste.

time waxen flesh curved like new laws rolls death-hungry glory skirted in reverent silence’s pricked and bloody delicious apple skin over a pale core with twinkled gore in shimmered hues: crimson river, golden wheat and shy blue sky peeping through like a coy sexual giggle. unseen forces weave and wiggle between life and death; Heaven and Hell; barbarism and grace. she says I’ve been bitten, and the war-fires are burning in my stare. I shrug my shoulder, adjust my crotch and watch the world dissolve through the window of a moving Japanese wreck. corpses wave candles from the roadside and hum the malaise of battered centuries. she looks beautiful with hatred and confusion on either side of her haloed head. I can see her bones glowing orange-hot beneath the unsteady surface. not sure if I’m predator, prey or bystander, but I am sure that I’m thinking too much. I reach for her touch. time to die or prosper.

half-empty bottle of sin carved you flowers of frogs and glass, hung displays of infant worlds awakening, wove a thought that you never wear. shrubs should have been silver-fronded, but they were not. words were sabotaged by clock puppets flashing solitude from your briefcase; wooden solitude with a black veining smile. teeth diminishing, teeth gone, teeth again. tied spidery dream catchers from metaphysical ropes to forget. you left nothing but your stains. drank mournful remembrances of green life drying up as psychotic windmills wobbled old hymns. liquid jewels seeped from fractured and starred blue eyes, and golden gloom waved a sure farewell. I have run out of miracles.

Conclusions (you shouldn’t have come here alone) thanks for visiting. remove your 3-d eyeballs, put your ugly red pants back on, tell me I’m a naughty little critter, take your empty victims to the trash. (run away before I scream something vulgar) shhh. come closer. I’m about to burst into flames. (sprinkle my ashes into an envelope, mail me to Jesus’ defense attorney) #evidence forget that this crooked bird ever flew through your cozy little cell. *tell your wife I loved the shape of her mouth

BIOGRAPHY

R.G. Johnson lives in the Piney Woods of Texas. He grows his own food, cuts his own hair and writes his own poetry. He is nothing but trouble. Most good folks try to stay away from this social misfit. Rumor has it that he once made love to a rattlesnake. His writing has been published in many magazines and journals (web & print) including Clockwise Cat, Black-Listed Magazine, Paradigm Journal, Literary Burlesque, Red Boot, Poetry Monthly International, Gutter Eloquence, Exercise Bowler, New Wave Vomit, Opium Poetry 2.0, An Electric Tragedy, Aberrant Journal, U Magazine, I,S&T, Burning Houses, Negative Suck, Mad Swirl, Weirdyear and Medulla Journal.