I Was a Teenage Sketchbook

The sensual, the surreal, the beauty we overlook on a daily basis, the dark urges, the exotic escapes; words and images by American artist, John Goss.

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John Goss was born in Santa Cindy and was raised and lives in Asia/Pacific. Learn more about John at Siamorama

Friday, June 30, 2006

Nocturnal Emissions

Hi, I read your letters again last night, thin scent of you stuck to my fingers now. Sweet, you guiding me to memories. I'm still shaking sand from my socks on this beach where I've spent a little lifetime since you left working on stories that were quite mean and dishonest until your letters of love knocked them into focus so fast that I'm sending you this valentine.

How is the city of sex anytime, Heaven? There aren't many men in my life right now. Spend my time off chasing ghosts that haunt the toilets and parks, walking everywhere (which only the poor do in L.A.). I actually mean that a terrible secret makes music here these evenings. A new and intimate companion. He comes here on Saturday nights and fucks me over. His name is Loss. So, I'm shut out of L.A. and I dance on Venice Beach for quarters. My life's like those two masks of theater. Can you see me, the absense of you forming my smile and my frown?

What's that? Oh, you remembered. Yeah, today I'm thirty-one years old. Tomorrow, what will I be? Luckily, no one sent me roses and chocolates like you used to. I sound so blithe! Last night I arranged the performers in a vast ultra-violet landscape. I had the front row all to myself. I watched them glow and touch. Then, I walked out and sat by the thousand camp fires of the homeless. I bartered, trading back rubs for cheap wine. My birthday party was very nice.

What else? My performance in Brussels went to hell, tape enclosed. No plot. I forget the idea. A lot of subtle moves and part of it repeats. The epidodes merge the way a river gives up a body. He offers the flowers shifting collage of video images kissing the slick of his lover's nipple, stomach, the wet nape of his neck warm against the cold tiles of the shower walls. They won't let go of each other, shorts coiling around the thighs of Laocoon and his hunky sons. Anyway, it was a bomb. But I've perceived, in a number of ways, a new piece presenting ourselves -- as fantasies or dreams -- in hyper-drag with never too many sequins in these vignettes composed of obsessions over Dorothy's shoes and friends of Dorothy -- old Daddies in leather -- hunched up against each other in a bar called "The Yellow Brick."

I'm researching normalcy. No authoritative studies exist yet. I personally believe that hanging out the back window with a pair of binoculors to watch the neighbor boys fuck is a good definition. It's a very academic pursuit -- sketches in blue pen noting the signals, rectal temperatures, samples of their ejaculate sent to the lab. Am I turning you on? Or am I turning into you? I squeeze you out with each new fantasy so I can make sure you still exist in me. I have fantisized daily about your face, smiling canvas for my sperm. And I see you on video, attracting dust like a magnet. I have a secret plan to come to your rescue. I know an actor. He says that if I send slides, resume, and lots of everything to a hidden theater or dance space disguised as a love motel -- there he will faithfully and accurately transform his own body so that I can rehearse my lovemaking with you (the scene in question).

Can you tell? I'm pretty poor at doing this over the phone. It's not good for me to hear your voice too often. I think of seeing you and me kiss on all the video monitors in Japan and everyone standing frozen in the train stations watching our monster-sized make-out while gay boys cruise in and out of the toilets, hard-ons leaking into Issey Miyake briefs. It's a comedy disguising a tragedy.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

One-Eyed Monster

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Only Zero Shopping Days Left

The tall androgyne calmly channels The Force and sets fire to a mall filled with holiday shoppers. The invented insurrection thus extinguished must be cooled with water for days before the planting of evidence can begin. He/she gestures like a surgeon across this latest preventative success; a tar-black forest of charred products and melted mannequins.

I notice the riot effect of the glass and plastic which replicates him back as her own fiancé. He/she weeps into the tissue of mummies as if on display in those very clothes. I see this sentimental gesture repeated everywhere by the guards and the doctors. Proof enough of the "hundredth monkey" theory.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Feed Your Head

Monday, June 26, 2006

Medicine Man

I can't heal myself! Spit
Gold teeth to a rusty puddle
Of blood in this ochreous
Hell-stretch of bone-pocked

Desert. I'm pickled in
Whiskey and dying
In this trap; tourists snap
At the copperhead in gasoline,

Coyote pelt, splintered Injun
'n sickly shootists. Joshua
Tree's whistlin' Dixie
As high noon gnaws, everything

Dies. I'll be borned agin --
Beady trinkets, fistfuls
Of spine to charm
Your squaw, your whooping

Child. Bury me
Alive. Ribcage
Rasps one last supper o' dust.
When my eyes are fingered

Shut -- see --Clouds like mesas
In a blue stream sky,
Buzzards hawking

My bones for ice.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Recently Discovered Codex Fragment

Saturday, June 24, 2006

Baja, Death on Holiday

Dust jugs crack the spine
Of broken boulevard.
This hellfire kiln --
It's the trap I've come to tourist.

Souvineers of suffering
Heatedly hawked --
A braceletof failed charms, apocryphal gems

Jangled in a glittery hiss.
Not a slither of passion.
Original sin's too rare to bargain

Away in the blaze they endure.
They string those snakey trinkets
In the cool belly of the Mission,

In coffin-shaped confessionals
Where sins are traded daily
For a snack of flesh and blood.

I sift through all the mummy dust
Unearthing my salvation -- candy skulls,
Thirteen to the dollar,

Each bleached horror blessed
With a frosty number, a monogram,
A confectionary crucifix.

I rattle a bagful.

On the train home, a dozen left.
The sugary stain of a cross on my lips.

Friday, June 23, 2006

Holy Art School Doodle, Batman!

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Licked

The young tongue, tangled
in sticky duet.

Now, lapping at dust.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Eraserheads (and Hands)

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Neverland Confidential

What happened during the next thirty minutes or so, soon after the Joneses (not their real names) drove their teenage son home, is a mystery; and perhaps that's why, from the honors banquet, they came up over the rise onto this parking lot, rather than the actual Orchard Road and suddenly saw ambulances in their imaginations. Whatever hap-mare scene, by 10:30 that evening their dream's a murder site with people and lights and people everywhere.

When they reached their home the lights came up on Jonny (not his real name). He was out, swearing, and was just absolutely and belligerently wasted in the neighbor's driveway. He got up, couldn't walk, couldn't even talk right. Jonny staggered towards the porch.

Suddenly, from later, Mr. Jones between his car and the hedge like a real man strode, ordered, "Get out of the house!" The parents towards the boy. At first they thought fist-fight, didn't know what was wrong, suspected a bad crowd; they broke out in a horrible fear-rash that he was on drugs and took him to the flash and heard the boy scream. He fell, got hospital.

Later, Jonny's parents apologized to everyone in front of the camera crew. Jonny was so nervous he threw-up all over the press.

And much later Jonny's brother remembered that a few weeks after Halloween, Jonny was acting weird and got a call from Michael Jackson (not his real name). Jackson was hysterical in the limo that night in the church parking lot.

"I can't hold it in any more," he cried, "stuffed it right away and it turned me into someone else, gotta tell someone!"

"So come over," Jonny urged, being the sensitive type.

Five times, as it was later discovered, right in the heart. He collapsed in his Dad's arms, spurting revelations about boys like Matt Dillon. Blood like an artery had been hit, and soon after that, Jonny was in love with this guy whom he could never tell.

Mr. Jones prayed for him, but told himself while pressing his hands against the wounds that he had a feeling about all this.

"I think he's going to ask you out, Son."

Two weeks later he did.

Dad was always sharp at sensing that sort of thing.

One reason that people suspect Michael is that Jonny had written in Jackson's yearbook, "You're going to be a big name in your life, not because you're 'weird' or anything, but because you're __ __ __ and proud to say it." But he didn't write it in, he just made three spaces; otherwise it would be putting a jinx on it.

Jackson now claims, in a note released by his attorneys, that he just wanted a "really close pal and someone to go dancing with, bad."

Monday, June 19, 2006

You Turn Me On

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Ganymede Haikus

GWM,
Blond, fit, hung bottom.
Real princess.

Aquarian
Into gymnasia,
Tending sheep.

ISO
Dominant Daddy,
Total top.

Beard a plus!
Take me to heaven.
No fats/femmes.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Now All I Have is a Photograph

Friday, June 16, 2006

Pagoda of Extinction

xx
xy
sin
glee
path
stifling
groans
capture
stillness
mimesis
clay clone
gene spool
species cull
clay shadows
juxtagendered
pseudo-sinister
little vest of clay
horror genre splat
mystery guest stars
death and taxidermy
impossibile progeny
alien bed-wettings
crash-dumb testis
mounting stiffness
lumpy blob of matter
odd, some bittersweet
burial stories, babbled
flayed naked heart milk
sandcast crayon forests
jingles and hard barnyard
troglomorphic insemination
universal playtime perversions
stumpy and uncoordinated guys
artificially sweetened impossibility
sex is an echo of bygone instincts
sci-fi vegetables for carnivore Lent
former infant's satisfying perversion
brilliant pain of childhood exorcised
plastic surgery botched mortician lips
photographile videot peeping tomboys
a shadowfree stage of reflective silversand
squirrels, chip monks, and elegant pine coffins
clay genitalia, dug-out vaginas, numb buttholes
revamped + inorganic + slabs + organic + vamped
exspermental dosings abruptly reach evolutionary end
sculptures of clay-encased used stuffed plastic animatrons
mutilated Barbies reciting sad creepy taunts of decapitation
reverse-engineered squirrels holding secret spreading ecstasy
chunky statuettes foreshadow the extinction of genetic diversiblings
hacked-off switch-headed long-necked e-limbs, e-heads, and e-entrails
(Marischa Slusarski and Claire Barron artists' statement expressed as a stupa)

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Freud's Copy of the Sears Catalog


Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Implicating You


Admit the secret ache that called you here tonight.
What is it that you want?
The brush of a devil's thigh, the tar pit of cheap opiates,
an ass to split, a lover's pubic hair under tongue,
the moisture between two bellies or the flaming remnants
of a body falling from the sky into tomorrow's headlines?
I am your guide and your barrier.
And this path of shadows is paved with silver nitrate
and hot, whispery discourse.