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Text
DEAN JOHNSON
* About Dean.
* Poems.
* A Strange and Brutal Sport. * “All I Want to Do is Go Home.” * A Cross These Times. * A Mind For The Pecking. * A New Year. Again. * All sweet petals turned to bloom. * All the doors never home. * An old dog’s life. * At the Table Typing. * Beauty lies in wait.* conveyance
* Dead Man’s Mile
* Dolphins Save Men Drowning.* Here…
* How Far the Pieces* I Dreamed I Died.
* Labour On.
* Life is but a lingering death. * Little Plastic Duck * Priapus Limping Down. * Sisyphus Rolls on By. * Splashing To The Sun* the abiding
* The Golden Spilling Drop. * The imperfect moving forward. * The Lilt and Titter. * The Old Slap and Tickle.* The Opera Singer.
* The Organ Grinder.* The Placement.
* The Poem Expanding* The Sun is Here.
* The Winds Have Bent Me Down. * They Slept as Pearls. * Walk on Pilgrim. Walk on. * Warm yet in our hearts. * When the Poem Comes. * Where’s the hand that would raise me? * So now I guess we have a cat. THE CONTAGION OF RUIN January 29, 2018 by Dean Johnson I’m standing in the ruin of an old building. It’s an office building. I can tell. I’m in a shirt and loosened tie standing there among the tiltingconcrete slabs
and re-bar stabbing out. Fuck. Everything is bent, broken and twisted. I’m standing in the wreckage in front of a cigarette machine. Can’t find a quarter. But I need a cigarette so fucking badly, though I quite so, so longago.
And then an old man
a hobo
a bum
shuffles up.
He punches the glass of the machine again and again with a bloody fist until the glass cracks and packs of cigarettes tumbleto the tray.
DuMarier. My old brand. Each red pack in a strange configuration. Packs of 24. Packs of ten. Some tiny packs of five. Some opened and half empty.The old man me.
Filed Under: Uncategorized COME NOW PUSSY CAT PURR. January 29, 2018 by Dean JohnsonUnroll the string
unroll this night
Come now pussy cat purr.Filed Under: Poems
TYPE AND THE WORDS SHALL APPEAR. January 22, 2018 by Dean Johnson Type and the words shall appear. A punch. A rock through a window. The fiery finger of a subducted and boiling mass. A stretch to fill all mornings. A skip across the waters. A slide down a slippery slope. A lingering note. Red fading in lament that the sting may linger but never last. Prose and poem in part, in past present and shifty now, all searching for a finger’s grasp. Filed Under: Poems , typingTHE ORGAN GRINDER
January 13, 2011 by Dean Johnson A bargain, my life today. No quarter for the monkey, his tin cup’s spilt, the grinder spanked and loosed screeching to the trees. Filed Under: Poems ,Uncategorized
THE OPERA SINGER.
January 12, 2011 by Dean Johnson You look like an opera singer, she said puffed out shirt and pin legs untuck your shirt. get some fucking style. Thank God, I thought. Respectable is getting old and I’m forgetting how to sing.Filed Under: Poems
THE OLD SLAP AND TICKLE January 7, 2011 by Dean Johnson Just the sun I needed but blinding too late to keep meaning from the memory of my eyes. A key for every knocked down door. Every ivory slapped and tickled. The bruising and the pallor comes upon the Sunday face and the jowls of Saturday night. Filed Under: Poems ,Uncategorized
LIFE IS BUT A LINGERING DEATH. December 31, 2010 by Dean Johnson They wobble when they walknot knowing
they are the dead
and tremble at the cawing of the crows.But not me.
I walk steady laughing across this tilting landcalling out:
“Here come rest upon my arm. Life is but a lingering death and leaving it no harm.” Filed Under: Poems ,Uncategorized
LITTLE PLASTIC DUCK
October 17, 2010 by Dean JohnsonLittle plastic duck
tethered lonely to the pond pity the sky brings none to playtoday just rain
just me
sheltered by the tree Filed Under: Poems ,Uncategorized
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