For Red
My Death My death is the bride of glamrock Frankensteins. The head of the sacrificial horse screwed into a forest of eyes. On their faces whittled wonders insinuate the ferret’s imaginary hands. Their breasts are mirrors sewn into the sun’s retinal egg-timer.

A womb of light bleeds temperate Demons. A daily public procession, a night of unnatural horrors. I caught their full fathoms diving deep in the pubic engine. And I wept because the more silver snarled its unspeakable public pains, the more private gold seemed to be. My death is the culmination of many others, perhaps an Egyptian prince shrunk to wormwood. Lightning drinks hash oil helped to bed by slivered fetal brandies, and the more we spooned Pointillistic flowers, the more Paul Verlaine slashed at the damned. Was it all futile? Did they join the savage sideshow in hopes of meeting in parallel lines? How often did the canciones of golden


daggers betray posterity? And wtf is up with the Lambs that gleamed in perilous bronze? But there was hope, embedded in the gyroscopic beauty of Sex throbbing. There was still choice, struggling with the warmth of a sacred horse. All Ages stoned in the shitty house distill Voivod speculum within an inch of its life. And the Wargus led the troops to ritual lukewarm confusion. My death is an autoclave of jazzheaded beasts, plowed, muzzled and fenced with sandalpaste. It is an extraordinary symptom of the Bad Girl’s Revenge dictated by Meester Pinball. It is a brew of telepathic notions found in the street by Chinese pixies.

A fantasy of spin on the streets of Sweet Sixteen. A brokered self-portrait in blood, brains and blinding gore. A wounded archive of slug-and-snail assaults. A cruel Hittite with falsified uranium undergarments and hydrogen teeth. My end is the beginning of all cruel wheel-callipers (greedily swallows the delicate bird). My end is the library of vampiric

deserts. It is a solace for macerated meanings in shields of Arthur Rimbaud. It is the deliberate distort, whoof, break and cannibal island of Kali-flowers. And it is the female form of hexagonal tiles in the final agony of Celtic solar wheels. My beginning underscores another end, another broken tablature chopped to death with hexes. It is the fusion of sleeping dogs swarming with children. It is the undeciphered mask against the Arabic wall. It is the titration of Japanese toys by Australian bottlebrush machines. And, finally, it is the weeping lights of Ionian chessgames shrunken to new highs. Corday (T.S. Eliot Remix) Another was a diver for his living while his mistress swayed in wind like a field of ripe corn. The Dresden clock continues whole orchards sugared by masked cardinals. And so many eagles sang of death to features flayed. For Soft Dogs, Incandescent and Licking Hades There’s no reprieve for cybered dogs witched out. Their roving scrolls unfurl with a delicious voluptuity. Painful indeed is Anarchy’s dungeon beating Justine, while the wolves held sway giving girls to the Marquis. A Badger A badger rolls himself new frontiers of depravity. Who are these Big Operators that smell of formaldehyde? A vibrating soundless hum built legions of soft animals, poetry that sprang a leak and continues to run..right off the page.


Tenderly over the Cup I. The bitter moth loves clairvoyance, its radiant calipers beheaded slowly by Time. Time has a peroxide head shredded Black Flag t-shirt long tatted arms a cool window on the Pacific seen from space bellys. Love is a propped torso inseminated by Death. This has been proved by your architecture. A draft of witchless addictions complicates minerals, ever single time. Poison pleasures the coarsest dragon. Hamburgers 5 cents. Wonder has been replaced with a neat equation: my god has a vomiting negro hat and eyes the color of eyes. He/she/it has alabaster dream liquid dripping from an ace-inthe-whole. “It” being a dead map to crystals. The rules are always dug by the Invaders; time is a soup kitchen operated by shrunken heads. Meat? Or Not. The jury is stool out, trickydicks in. Tenderized flesh has butch sidearms now rotating from the feral, whipped farts of poisoned goddess. Monkeys bear tumblers of spice to the cannibals flogged by numbers. The fall of spice is a telepathic maniac uprooted by the dead.


My bodies have eyes the color of William S. Burroughs. My seasons have snakes shit out like shit that shit out shit. Looksies but don’t ticktock; brave hearts. II. Tenderly over the cup we drifted, like a cursed and wigged grammar jointed from boneflute. We hailed the butterflies of clouds that made skull candy a distinctly possible sport, while deriding the muted fog of the glass violin. Swiftly over the severed limbs we formed a spacetime contingency plan broken from maidenheads that sang for their glass eyes. The winds blew the swart octopi through the machine as we listed furiously in the language of bicycle trees. A spiny-rayed Mantra of clarified butter locks arms in protest, while seasonal deaths mushroom in the mist.

Underscore for Indirection


I. This is a coda for worms Forgive us our slugbait entropic ways Longheaded fossils beat the waters And corpses dogpaddle nicely II. I am a disco-skipping outlaw Who knew the pain for what it was and What it was for was Fogged folded and In your face the skullsinging hammers Neatly arranged and sang of Scarlet rats finally settled On pinheads that roam wherever you go III. Truncated, malnourished Bombed-out wreck and foreign to reason Cervical geometry still with the stems intact Born from the clean dirt of the last score Now collecting arms For holdup kids in the derelict Laundromat

Stereotyped zombies swing redrum delirium Drooled across several leagues


of folded antique streets Distinguished Atoms Loaf among the distinguished Atoms reign though idling While in the corners the puppets aloof Whistle-blow the rust on used rainbows Ten rainbows for 2 bucks Damaged rainbows virtually free Just loosed from the prism house With darkened screams scribbled on arms The melt of dreams is something to believe Not the swansong of still lives crackling Above the rooftops songbirds derange the message Spiked to antennae of liquid gold And the Pharaoh who often signaled Saucy handkerchiefs for falling idolaters Spun the snake on the snoot with cherryred lips With a wolfish silver coin of wickedness A colorful sight for mourning erections Crucified by 10,000 black leather sons Where punkrock alleycats sing the moon syringe And severed hands stalk soapopera alleys at dawn


Lean among the idle And learn more synonyms for “prune” And such glitter for mosh abracadaveric And such wisdom the trashman brought Learn among the frost-leaved level-headed Scones of the furry sky-gliders Serene as Betty Boopster angels hot for gory In a week the mountains will be walking No valleys left behind the flesh-baked cinemas. Bricked-Up Gardens Bricked up gardens with cathouse feet Burn a new trajectory For lionheads left singing The mashed potato waltz And ah that mashed potato waltz As clean as a dream of transparent bricks Cloned by shoestring gypsies got the hotfoot In a sun behind an alley gleaned by the Goon Martyred affections are bartered for cold cash And the trees are skeletons walking funny They were not I believe held up for money Sometimes just being is enough Water dips in the oarstream The head that doesn’t bang can still opine Of the dreamcats forever in perfumed air Lullabyes for scented realms and psychotic skies Where to do what to go A floodgate opens there I am and here, A blur of candles burning means to an end


While daylight, that Pimp, steals quaking in. All Material Copyright © 2012 by Alex S. Johnson, including the right to reproduce in any form.


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