Submissions by Johnny_Poet_Goncet (Johnny Goncet)

7">Sleepwalk, gently passing
obstructions of sanity
looking for the room
of separate faces where
no splendor
arises; an excavation
of reality leaving
potholes in my youth,
a burning murderer
of the sadist’s romance
learning what pain
in love really is.
Sleepwalk, through
an underworld
where my strangers
crawl instead
until I learn
to miss them
when they’re all gone.
Oh, my closest
lover in the darkness
of a tear
smeared with eyeliner
hopelessness
in my final morning
laced...

7">The exquisite corpse
of the Poet
is left in a muddy
darkness
by the wretched soul
in spite;
sometime in astral light
I nearly missed
the wreck we made love
out in the discriminate
paradise-
Evil matrimony
haven’t I defined,
smiling intentions to capture
deliriums violent music
yet sacrificing
the whim to live-
a lover is inside
should I greet them?
My dearest sins
I cherished and
wavered and adored
you so.
Collapsing, I broke
in shards to fall
into your hands...

7">The places we used to go were usually atmospheres only accompanied by the after hours of our lives, and by morning they would evaporate, as what the crowds around us coined ’the real world’ fell back into place. Our exterior desires contained themselves by day, until the empyrean nighttide would form its saturnalia around us. Various eccentricities would randomly present their opinions on the sleeves of inadvertent conformity, most of the lot not even realizing the production of their own contradictions; a very high percentage of my time spent in this nocturnal purgatory had been...

6">Lament for the avenues are no longer new
And all of the small noises rattling
Through the pastel curls of the evenings’ subtleties
Are merely made from the footsteps
Of another face we all find familiar
And we never find the beauties of time
Dying on the coastline of the night
No we never find these beauties
Buried in mauves and blues
Alongside the corpse of the sun.
Lament for the avenues are splintered
In complexities of corroded adolescence
And yet the elders remain alike in cruelty
Where the sky is not bejeweled in soft...

My Belladonna Lonesome

We’re all regathering the same pain through different pairs of eyes, pain as vampiric as the azure of the shadow stage, where all memories dance serenely as fairytale suicides. We watch the lovers long lost dress themselves in roseate coats and vast esteem, only to impress the air of the room they are stashed in, and nothing more. The animals of her dreams haven’t any names in their heartless rapture; The smiling cherubs seemed asleep along the edges of the corner shelves, where her passions were bottled in lucid posterity. Lampshades for tabletop mysteries,...