Alex S Johnson

Space Gulf Terror 

Staring through the barrel of a 

space gulf terror

frozen, gape-jawed, paralyzed, synthesized lies

clacking asteroids like castanets

seeking the bead on the core of reality, babies

With a monstrous mind unwieldy unworldly 

one worldly circulating steampunk streams of 

cotton candy circus tunes for neat tuxedo'd ghoulish grooms

The bride stripped bare by her bachelors, even

Steven slips himself the mickey mouse pill of rainbow 

consciousness, rippling pixels stamped from the distillation of crystal diode spatter

A host of shattered glass transformed from a zombie drone in ancient Egypt, weaponized, with party favors of ice ice maybe savored, shooting the moon to shoot up the moon, a tomb with a view to kill pills

In the hills, the cities, sitting pretty snuffnude displayed on a conch shell blowing the battle cry, rhizomes proliferating gravebabies with diapers full of moon dust, Vegas crooners cranking the gruesome calliope, the evil that you see in me belonging mainly to yourself

Put that imp of the perverse back on the freaking shelf. 

Fly Me to the Moon (Eco-Snuff Mix)

The moon launch ready, astronauts lack the stones

still swimming in the fever zone, deeply spaced out with

swarm of bacteria twitching and itching with cellular 

division of a glam-rock band

In proportion weight and measured sands of time

they gather the clowns together

und so weiter, undo so fort

dialing in to true north by northwest, 

The West clearly being always the best,

beating the tattoo of the bestial battle, joined in

splatterpunk brutality, wet gashes slashed into the system, 

retrograded Hades-bound pronouncements 

in the control room, weaving with a loom of fire

Get here and we'll ride the resistless crest of religion, 

gape-jawed superstition, primitive gonzo mojo wire 

feeding drafts of the Kentucky derby to Scanlan's as, 

frantic, the original blueprint of the Bible of Hell emerges 

as a digital marker for interstellar nosy parkers, 

snuffling about with shouts to round up the braying hounds

Going to the mattress as bullets zing across the Shaw

black metal holocaust fusions of flesh cubes crossing the biopunk Rubicon.

Gregor Samsa Overdrive

Look who just dragged the

black cat out of the

bag, Gregor Samsa Overdrive

His mothridden carapace exhumed like rock guitar

distort pedal to the metal, crash course in 

patch-eyed candy whoring

The mother of all Lord Abortions contorted 

in the center of the deathive, tuning alive primitive 

instruments in  a data cloud of dark embattled minds, 

resurrects the  stone sarcophagous in alleys of history's dust

Flying through space graded at scale like the Man in the Moon

with artificial shakespeherean intelligence, such elegant turns of the

cocktail glass menagerie, where funeral phantoms smash sobriety.