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

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

The Journey Down

When I come to, I see again the sad face of my mother. Her features float beside me, neat as if cut from the family album. She has no body, no limbs to wring or fret with, no finger to point, just the sad expression of a mother who's seen her son go rotten inside and out.

There are other mothers here, keeping vigil above sons and daughters. They hover thin and hopeless, our only company on the slow journey down. Even though I'm puking, I am fascinated by this perverse technical achievement. They are a perfectly effective punishment. I am consumed by guilt.

Our dark capsule is filled with pleas for forgiveness, childish denials and soft, wet sobs. Petty crimes are evident: soiled beds, dirty magazines under the mattress, sheets yellow with urine or stiff with semen or blotched with blood, dim flashlights, forbidden cigarettes, and secret diaries.

Someone stumbles up, fist whistling through his mother's shocked visage, tripping over her empty purse.

This could be any forgotten sci-fi film -- I am one of the hundred chosen to survive, crowding around the window of our spaceship for one last look at our doomed world -- only the film is running wrong and we are falling back to a planet blossoming in agony. The motherworld laboring in reverse.

"I'm so sorry, Momma."

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Why the Long Face?

Friday, August 18, 2006


Imagine the slow shelling
Of ourselves, sped
To a frenzy by a globe
Hotter than hormones.

Snake and onion, our bones
Have had enough of us.
They are lush in a second
To their marrows.

Rivulets, kite skin,
Carnelian as we rub,
In the garden
Trailing like snails.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Well Hung

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Page From a Russian Novel


Arlene Dinosaur, Isadore Unlearn, Sour Adrenaline, Redial Unreason, and Nonreal Residua are all anagrams for Laurie Anderson. "O Anus Perm" was, perhaps, her biggest hit.

Now, which career did Natasha Readings pick at the job fair?


Paris sounds divoon. I have fond memories of my nights at The Lido when I was in charge of re-glittering Josephine Baker's bananas. Jerry Lewis was still in diapers and every Frenchman spoke reverently of "ze Laurel" and "ze Hardy". The Eiffel Tower was still made of marzipan, and nights were spent "Yanky kissing" Resistance fighters traded Picassos for chocolate bars which they made into souffles using Zippo lighters. Merde, life was cheap then!



Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Failing Engines of Gravity

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

For Yeats

August's end we meet

on road in woods

berry ripe; so heavy

trees threaten

to skin themselves.

Air sweats, sky drags

around our heads.

Lives shift, turning over

on full stomachs.

Even the road moves--

on fat worms,

one layer on all the others,


We are thick with silence.

Summer tongues

ready to fall,

words purpled for picking.

A chainsaw wails across miles.

Whatever limb severed

crashes hard on all the years

and makes no noise.