My Poetry

The Worm (A streetcar named desire) By Anthony W Johnson

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 20:22:27 -0700

Ooh I am in the whole of a worm oozing the scent of gray clouds in autumn’s bosom,
At times the sweat is sweet and sour, like a picture of Santa Clause crying at the White
House...
You know, it’s all about love... Its cruel sarcasm, it is all about love... and its fond eclectic
Epiphany.
Fame has its price... It’s hot and luck is where “The Streets Have No Names",
You see the worm hides in the cracks of dusty sidewalks on Hollywood Blvd. waiting to be free, free to fly like Jennifer Beals in "Fame"

Ooh I am in the whole of a worm seeping the pus of poetry in autumn’s lungs.

At times the sex is sweet and sour like a picture of Jeff Stryker staring at his test Results...
You know, it’s all about love, its cruel sarcasm... It’s all about love, fond eclectic epiphany.
The need for Money has its price....
It’s warm and luck is its “Saturday Night Fever,”
You see the worm slithers in the closets of lofty bathrooms in Time Square waiting to
Be free, free to swim the waves of the Virgin Isles like Tom Cruise in "Moulin Rouge"

Ooh I am in the whole of the worm breathing the fear of red leaves in autumn’s soil,

At times, at times his lips are sweet and sour like a picture of Michael Jackson to a Child...
You might not know, it’s all about love... Its cruel sarcasm and you might not know
It is about love... Its fond eclectic epiphany,
Life has its price... it’s cold and luck is its
"Fire & Desire", you see the worm slips into the coffee cream pitchers at Dunkin Doughnuts on Halsted waiting to be free, free to run and never stop running like Billy Sive in “Chariots of Fire...”

But the reality is I cannot fly, I cannot swim and I cannot run.
For I am becoming the worm dripping black blood in autumn’s demise, and at times
I smell the sour kisses of sweet sweat sex on Christmas... and luck is “A Candle in the
Wind”...
Like a picture,
I’ve been “All Over the Guy”, chasing “The Cutting Edge” and landing in
“The Birdcage “fucking a "Trick" named "Jeffrey" at “The Broken Heart’s Club" and for a quickie you can catch me in “Circuit”!

You see, it is love, its cruel sarcasm, yes; love... its fond eclectic epiphany.
Dreams have a price. Their neither hot nor cold and luck is at the “Hotel California” for worms sleep in the homes of yesterday’s Coke cans on Venice Beach waiting to be free, free to write a song in an “Angel’s Heart” like Scarlet O’Hara in “A Streetcar Named Desire...”

By Anthony W Johnson
From Laughing Man on Fire

Taboo By Anthony W Johnson

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 04:08:32 -0700

TABOO by Anthony W Johnson

Everything is cold. Do you know the taboo? Luck?
My words are subtle, careless, weighted and woven in fortune abused and misused, I sing in the snow with the shadow of insanity, while howling at the moon in gibberish profanities.
It’s Cold! Do you feel the chill? My lips are dry and the chitter-chatter in this bottle is making me hazy. My fortune is jarred, hardened by the misuse of lexis and marred by the inferior veracity of charity. Yeah, I am inside the mime and crime of rhythm. It is the old adage of Rock! Do you know the taboo? Luck?
Cold? Do you feel the chill? My roof is wet. And the splitter-splatter in my pants has regarded me lazy. My fortune is charred, bombarded by the misuse of terms and abused by the enhanced trance of clarity. Do you care less about the subtle, careless, weighted and woven words of the white boy who’s stomach imploded at Little Five Points or did you drown in the tears and was brown nosed by the fears of the homeless drag queen on that bench at Santa Monica and Vine? I am inside the ruck and schmuck of lyrics. It’s the old adage of Pop. Do you know the taboo? Luck? Are you cold? Do you feel the chill?
My fingers are numb and the pitter-patter on the rooftop is drivin’ me crazy.
My fortune is faded, jaded by the misuse of language and discarded into the morality of reality. I am inside a melancholy melody, with the rhapsody of chastity. It’s the old adage of rap. Do you know the taboo? Cold? Yeah? Do you feel the chill? Are your fingers swollen yet? Does your rooftop leak wet drops of drool? Do you care less about the subtle careless, weighted and woven words of the black bearded bleeding man on Beale Street, or is it just a tainted memory, painted by the music and guarded by the black boy at the bus stop in Watts. Yeah, I am inside the tease and keys of harmony. It’s the old adage of jazz. Do you know the taboo? Luck? Cold? Feel the chill! Drink up! Are you misusing the maze and abusing the craze of the brown downtown cab driver waiting at Chicago and State that got killed last night? He was smokin’ yeah strokin’ to warm his soul hidin’ and drivin’ the pain of love and the cold, cold subtle, careless, weighted woven words of misfortune! It is the old adage of blues baby. Bad…Luck? No, Taboo! Ooh… frostbite! Chilly… ha-ha Yeah, crawl up on the roof and sleep, sleep, sleep…

Anthony Wayne Johnson
From Laughing Man on Fire

Season of Love By Anthony W Johnson

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 04:05:41 -0700

Season of Love by Anthony W Johnson Edit
Oct 14, 2008, 4:21 am

SEASON OF LOVE
The summer smells of his warm embrace.
His name is the color of Picasso and the joy of Cleopatra in the heat of the day.
I look into his eyes and the sea swallows me up.
I want to swim in the pool of his eyelids, and shipwreck on the island of his retina.
All at once I am thrown overboard.
He glares into my soul and I fall into the autumn air.
The wind catches my laughter and sends me tumbling on the belly of his winter brow. I want his voice to catch my song I want his heartbeat to catch my dance
Suddenly, I feel his lips.
I can not breathe...
What is this?
His kiss... is smothering my poem.
Ah, he is drinking the fluid of my Valentine.

Anthony W Johnson
From Laughing Man on Fire

Man by Anthony W Johnson

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 04:00:53 -0700

The carcass sits between yellow grass, buzzing bees, a fester of flies and sackcloth full of ashes. She feels the framework of man, the masculinity of the chest and the rugged contour of the calves, and she does not understand his desires... his determined infatuation, his selfish ways, and his dark past. Therefore, she looks to God for solution, for compassion, for justification, because he can see the crack in the pottery, it stands between the edges of the porch, and the dying tree, withered branches and a hefty bag of shabby clothes.
She feels the framework of man... the muscularity of the hand and the hard curvature of the biceps, and he does not understand her wants...her jealous rage, her insecure bias and her manipulative gestures. Therefore he looks to the truth for satisfaction, for revenge, for power,
Because she can see the imperfection of the heart, dwelling restless between the tongue and intestines reclining next to the lungs in a baited bag of dirt.
She feels the pain of man... his passionate poem to reason, his lack of love, and his caged femininity and she does not understand his lust, his necessity to encompass assurance, his compelling drive to cry God! And his foolish hope to finesse sanity.
Therefore, they look to the cross, for humility, for change, and most of all mercy,
Because now we see ourselves when, yes! We stand restless between the deathbed of sin and the misunderstanding of discipline... staring

Anthony Wayne Johnson
From Laughing Man on Fire

From Left to Right by Anthony W Johnson

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 03:55:39 -0700

FROM LEFT TO RIGHT

Excited at the bar on a hot summer’s night, I watched my friend glare at me from left to right.
I spoke “Drinking can kill a friendship and the ocean is far.”
He challenged my psyche so I got in his car. My eyes gazed… whispers… I lit his cigarette.
His body curved towards me from right to left.
He took my flirtations and colored my lines with crayons and markers until we were entwined.
I spoke “Life can be ridicule and we shouldn’t forget falling into that ocean could leave us wet.”
The night tossed questions into my breath.
Our kisses slithered triangles from right to left.
My lips pressed into themselves as his legs spread wide.
His slobber trickled down my neck onto my thighs.
I spoke “ Relationships are like dreams, they both need luck especially when best friends decide to fuck.”
The night crawled slowly up the windowpane.
He took a breath, I arched my back… he whispered and came.
Triangles and cigarettes float in hot sweat.
My head moved in circles from right to left.
Time rang in motion and I wondered why we crossed that ocean and it left me dry.
With crayons and markers drenched in sex, my emotions swarmed with fear from right to left.
Then he spoke “ I think there is something that you should know. I am like the tides I “come” and I go.
He got out of bed and hurried out the door, leaving his cigarettes I felt like a whore. The night peeled the fluid off of my chest. He had everything “right” and I had nothing” left”.

Anthony Wayne Johnson
From Laughing Man on Fire

Summer Rain by Anthony W Johnson

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 03:45:05 -0700

As the summer looms, I recall... the taste of his tongue and the smell of Bliss, his breath on my stomach... the fragrance of his kiss. His lips doused my doubts and ruled my jousts. I believed his laughter was hope and his silence was dope, so I sang the passion of romance, the ecstasy of fantasy and drank the color of his saliva, until rain dripped into the cry of shy whispers and tears cut puzzles and mysteries into the shape of dry blisters. When the summer looms, I recall the flavor of his words and savor the scent of his masculinity, his breath on my stomach and the tang of his femininity. His lips saturated my calms and castrated my psalms so... I spoke the vogue of sagas, the fable of Abel, then drank the color of his saliva until... rain trickled on the sheets of subtle lies, and the sighs bled deep into a night of confused whys, In the heat of deception, I accepted my recession and drowned helplessly in a boil of Autumn’s cries.
From Laughing Man on Fire by Anthony W Johnson