John Brosio - "Night Hunt"
City nightmares constant frightful ticking moments of our dreams licking the pavement, snapping claws and jaws of giant chomping beasts, breaking down these rubble streets, clean and filthy all at once, powerful beasts that light up majesty, their wrong choices buried in the right ones.
John Brosio, "Edge of Town No.13"
Time for me to act the other side of the mantel piece gives radio silence and the humming of a static television on repeat, once is played Godzilla reruns in a smoke filled dusty motel while a homeless man outside hums to a lonely beat. It’s all fucking broken again they howl. A boy mashing plastic dinosaurs on the clay floor he once saw covered in tiles as his mother protects him from the love he will inevitably feel, will she break his heart? Will she steal him away from her? Crayon dinosaurs chew through cardboard cut outs of that perfect image of love that doesn’t exist but for your mind, make wonder in your mind, trust that it will be there when you find it.
John Brosio - "Culture"
Coyotes stalk your past and you can come across all that you were looking for from another planet that drops its staircase as a present from the universe, show up to receive it and you’ll be lucky enough to get somewhere. You should have planned it better, but you didn’t know it wouldn’t happen at the last minute, it all fell apart and there was nothing left but a giant crab in an existential crisis, of to the night watchers and there dangerous party fancies, off to the street that heaves in disappointed angry daggers, off to that destructive force that makes you wonder why you were ever really here, rabid dogs stalk their dreams, marrying the kind of girl who brings fire to your life.
John Brosio - "Quixote 2000"
Poor misunderstood beings, they’re in pain but they cannot show each other, it’s too much love to expose so directly to the fire, so they gloss over with clean surfaces, clean colors, clean shapes that grow in my garden of perfect shiny noises.
John Brosio - "Culture"
Remember when we missed that echo? It was met with silence at the end of the coldesac, all were their in attendance, the priest the juror, the mayor, the strangers walking in the suburbs of a quiet forgotten town, the world happening elsewhere, the big smoke of their dreams, it’s all happening somewhere else. Not here, here stagnates in the existential silence, here bells chime unheard, here people sacrifice love for fame until it destroys ever part of them, then they mangled inside with regret stalk the pavements of nothingness to find a ticket to the heart crumpled in a garbage dumpster discarded by that one chance they had before. That’s where they lost love, foolish clowns dancing to music that wasn’t even playing for them, lost again in the formality of the everyday, practical suburbs with neon omens of quick satisfaction, instantly gratifying, instant satisfaction.
John Brosio - "The Seed"
Edward Hopper peers out of his rectangle windows to a glossy fabrication of Capitalist joys, packaged up in things people like because it’s easy to understand, understand this distraction and follow it like the pied piper wafted glossy things in front of unsuspecting adolescence. Some stupid complacency inspires me to stare into colors of my nightmares, I’m burdened by this right to know myself on the darkest level through the safest objects, growling midnight demons of my spirit prowling in an open dark forest. She inspired the best parts of me by hunting my nightmares and there I stuck like a petulant child until absence forced my will to act. Like a giant crab she towered over my adolescence screeching for me to wake up from my nightmares.
