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.
- Name: John Goss
John Goss was born in Santa Cindy and was raised and lives in Asia/Pacific. Learn more about John at Siamorama
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
I Feel So Roman
Academic sorting aside, they are all similarly displayed. The men have been given baby blue gowns soaked in a litmus-like solution. As they spit and ejaculate, broad orange expressionistic streaks stain their robes. Grids are superimposed by projection to aid in arousal.
The women have been attached to video screens displaying, in much the same way as a 1960s hippy color organ, the terminal intensity of their emotions, edged towards explosion by over-administration of hormones.
My top pick is a man who has been injected with a concentration of his favorite cologne. I massage my scrotum, the vibrator cooled in liquid helium.
My prick is up, searching for some hint of originality, some condensation of creativity, to make this expensive show worth it.
I feel so Roman, though I still don't think I could comfortably vomit up my dinner (the chief activity of sex-death by food).
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Mr. D. in October Drag
teeth black as a charcoal dream.
Your ink's a rush through this straw--
my mouth, tight as a needle hole.
I am beveled to slice you on contact,
without a word I draw blood
and sprinkle bone dust in the wound.Mummy!
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
because your body's fed on its memories.
You shout this though I am just next to you.
You, who memorized my first kiss,
cannot retrieve my name now.
Speeding into space, your sobs come
few and far between.
You cannot imagine yourself anymore --
eye color, hair, the extent of your bruises.
Are you the cup's hard rim, the pill
in your throat or the hand you clutch but cannot see?
You ask if I am afraid as I bring you to sleep.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Here, the idyllic hasn't begun yet and everyone is doing ghoulish until the movie begins. I move my leg against his. His Romeo thigh is icy, no colony. He is, of course, sitting, but also rubbing sometimes. I also discover that if I rub myself and moan loud enough, people will stare at me instead of the screen. I enigmatic this unwed. The picture ends.
I am about to enter another room when I am stopped by an angry ma'am.
"May I see your dick, please," he says in a loud, annoyed way and so I fondle him with equal nausea.
"I've already some once," I explain, "but I didn't understand the film."
I smile because I know that he hasn't moved his thigh away.
"I'll come asunder and get a thicker tissue layer, O.K.?"
The man looks shocker and I look shocker back.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Mall of America
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Few hulls glide this late
in evening--their lights
filter down, a glinting snow,
and streak a wriggling side.
The ocean is a thick wind.
Bones are a brackish rain
when it blows. A lungfull
is the sailors' oldest song.
My shell is sunk,
a briny dissolution.
Hands reach, fingers drag
my surface, their waves
just a fine trembling.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Kill the Texan
I had a very intense hospital dream starring us as patients. I was having my heart put back in after having already been transplanted out. But then I heard you were in the same hospital because you jumped off the roof of the parking garage. I got up with my IV drip and raced through a mint-green maze of corridors awash in disinfectant. Finally I found the foreigners' ward and I was told that you were in critical condition after attempting double lover's suicide with a man from Texas. I resolved to kill the Texan once he was brought back from the dead.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Good Advice for Betty Crocker
Build a third escape tunnel.
Bury a precious vegetable under the sign of the gold arches.
Two drops in each cupcake.
When the scent of spoiling meat is strong, rub the glass orbs with the cinnabar wand.
Offer to carry a stranger's luggage to the Holiday Inn.
Trace the outline of your cat with that awful Crayola crayon "flesh" color.
Think globally, act clownishly.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Skinship Saplings in the Sacred Grove (fragment)
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
Their golden carpet stinks.
However, mine purple recycle bin falls,
Or mine white baby calms down.
A small cat stares.
However, mine green bottle smells.
A given, expensive, beautiful MP3 player
Stares and perhaps...whose soft dog got an idea?
Any slopy Sony adheres.
His brother's white hairy little white bra is on fire.
Our small sofa stares.
The white, white forge spits.
Her daughter's round-shaped clock calculates.
Any given round bra lies.
His shining t-shirt calculates.
Our beautiful t-shirt sleeps.
Her round-shaped, smart, slopy pencil walks.
Or, maybe mine white sofa prepares for a fight.
His brother's odd shaped umbrella snores,
His brother's white forge fidgets.
His brother's noisy ram calms down.
Their purple picture makes sound.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Saturday, July 08, 2006
The patients are weeping, only slightly doped. Cross sections of their induced sarcomas are in constant update on the screens. There are capsules of cyanide, like colorful jujubes, on hand in cut crystal dishes on little, silver rolling trays. Aside from decorative exposition, I can't think of anything clever to say. My mind is constantly wandering back to shopping. That is to say, I draw a blank.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Fall (for my Father)
Your crate should be
your jaw cracking
like a pumpkin,
your tongue--a root
worming up to sun.
seasoned with you.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
You Say the Morning Breaks
doggedly chasing the full moon cat.
The beast, put to sleep,
heaves up again from the slab,
gnashing and squirming
under dawn's scalpel.
Flesh sloughs from bone.
Night recoils its embrace--
a velvet anemone.
Daybreak's bleached fossil,
dupe to duties of a million years--
birthing and burying
the sludge of stars.
steals me from dreamy coma,
waking to that heavy reproach
that crushes to dust,
to glint in rising columns
as I lie broken.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Sunday, July 02, 2006
and play that image once again,
as real as a stereoscope card:
The man waits foreverin Ezbekiyeh Gardens in Cairo,
in the same heat,
the same natty suit and knickers.
The same sun
shines on the royal palms--anchors,
stone-heavy mooring masts,
lotus pillars sunk in grass.
The same man waits there.
He looks our way,
sweat beading under his hat brim,
cane supporting himstraight as the trees,
waiting to sight the horizon,
to hear the buzz of flies become a roar.
The man waits forever--
waits for the shadow to reach his feet,
waits for the grey point to block the sun,
waits for the rush of shade.
To play the image once again:
he waits for its approach,
its humming engines
and silver belly stretched against the land.
Half way around the Earth from where I am,
oxen chatter by their wells.