Leah Johnston Art: Photography and Poetry

Like a footprint slowly fading,
like a snowman in the heat,
you will leave me,
softly,
gently,
just like
dying in my sleep.

***
Happy Valentines Day! Nothing like a depressing break-up poem & pic to celebrate the holiday!

On a personal note, I am so sick of taking photos in this bed! I even went so far as to attempt this photo lying naked in the snow, just to avoid using the bed again! As you can imagine, it was painfully cold and awkward being naked in the snow. My friend Chris helped me and we barely got any shots as I was screaming in agony the entire time. The worst part is I didn’t like how the pictures came out so I resorted to using the bed again! It was a funny experience none-the-less, so I had to post the result below. L.A. will be a welcome change of weather and photo-scenery.

The day had gone
Unnoticed
For several years.
And the incident
Which we do not speak of
Had been hidden like the innards of
A morgue
Slipped between the pages
Of an old dusty book
That I never cared to open
Again.

You pulled it out
Tonight.
You had saved it
On your computer
So that you wouldn’t forget
That which I couldn’t.

That day:
March 6, 2006

So.

I am
Shocked
That I still have the capacity
To weep
Over some unformed remnant
Of myself
That transpired and was
Abandoned
En route to that
Illusive castle
That I endlessly traverse toward

The incidental one
That visits
Like the ghost of your distant cousin
That you never were that close to in life
But just pops in
Every now and then
For a little visit
To tug on your skirt
While your doing the dishes
Or prod your side
As you watch a movie
About women in aprons
That dimly resemble
Yourself.

This incident
Must be swept
Back under the rug
With the dust-bunnies
And other unconscionable truths
That are too big
To drown out
With the Asprin.

Some things
Are better left
Unnamed.

Some things
Are better left
Forgotten.

Your love
Like suicide
Has its sinister magnetism
That draws me to the edge of the blade
As I’m cutting through the carrots
Or pulls me up dangerously close
To the side of the freeway
Where I can feel the breath of violence
Chase along my skin
As the Big Rigs rush recklessly past

Your hand
Between my thighs
Brings forth that kind of violence
Shaking me
Like a baby
And then filling me up
Like a breathing tube

It leaves me hungry
At night
Gazing into the open refrigerator
Or pacing
Through cold quarters
Like a corpse called up from the crypt

So when you tell me to
Give up
Or give in
Because it isn’t working
Because it never was
We both know
There can be no
Absolution

Like a toy boat
Cast into an angry ocean
We never
Had a choice.

I assault the world
with my whining,
with my ‘work’,
as though
that meant something,
as if
I were
more than a loser
rotting in a rented room.

People are dying
in Haiti,
I’m told.
Some of them
children.

I throw
ten bucks
at the issue,
tell it
to go away,
so I can go back
to whining
about the fact that
you left me
again.

Alone on
a Friday night.
Nothing else for me
but the work.

I taught
my arms
to stop
reaching for you.
my eyes
to stop
searching for you.
my lips
to stop speaking
your name.

but, my heart-

oh
my heart.

You enter
Like a stranger
You take me
Like a thief
I cling in solemn silence
Like a fated autumn leaf

My body
Like a glacier
Your body
Like a storm
Our fingers reaching out for love
That hasn’t yet been born

The sins
Of this transfusion
Like a needle
Like a knife
Will pierce the perfect veil
Upon this newly christened life

And so we move with chaos
And so we flirt with chance
Adrift inside a snow-globe
Of a slow hypnotic trance

Your body
Like a glacier
My body
Like a thorn
Our fingers reaching out to love
That comes to us
Stillborn.

After all the times I shivered
Like a snowflake at your door
And begged you like a junkie
On the look-out for a score.
After all the times I broke you
Like a wave upon the shore,
Without a wind to guide me
You should know what I’ve come for.

After all the times I sacrificed
My rapturous reward
And died the unsung hero
At the mercy of your sword.
After all the times I played for you
The widow and the whore
Without a grace to hide me
You should know what I’ve come for.

After all the times my mournful mouth
Has cried to you for more.
The many times I plucked
The poison petals from your sore
And soothed your naked body
As it lay upon the floor
Your bloodied boots beside me
You should know what I’ve come for.

**
I wrote this poem 6 months ago and have been imagining this image ever since. I had to wait until I was in Canada over Christmas to do it. Thanks to my sister who helped take the photo and my Dad who painted my face. Make-up was inspired by Estefania Desperies and the photo was influenced by Rosie. My feet were frozen!

God-
You’re so lucky
To live
In New York City

You’re so lucky
To be
Chasing your dreams

You must
Love it there

You must
Live such a life!

I smile.

Yes.

Yes, I do
I say

If they
Only knew.

I am drunk again
Without bottle to bark at

You chastise me
Because I am reckless
Because I insist on gorging myself
On the nectars of some dirty metaphor

Nobody understands why
I bask in the tars of a blackened heart
Or tangle myself in the veins
Of a worthless lover
Only to be spit out
Like a profanity

And frankly
I don’t give a fuck
About you or your standardized methods
You can watch me through the keyhole
While I tear out my golden hair

Go ahead.
Spread my used linens
Across your Imperial headlines
While I spread my listless limbs
Across this broken bed

My alcohol doesn’t name me
And neither do you.

LISTEN
Here comes the rose in my lips.
Here comes the thorn in my throat.
Here comes my midnight-butler
with a glass of sherry
and an invisible cigarette
to hang on my frown.

Here comes my cancer-clown
with another rabbit up his sleeve,
and the ghost of my youth
that was buried beneath my porn

Here comes another night
to drown you in it’s wishing well.
Another synthetic Sunday
to exploit you with its crosswords.

Here comes my legendary mute symphony
Ladies and Gentlemen,
I shall now
dive from a high tower
into a cup of water
that is 38% full.
Observe,
as I perform a ballet
without the use of my skin.
As I make love
all by myself
in a manner which is simultaneously reminiscent
of Pablo Picasso and Fred Durst.
Here it comes.

Here it comes.

BEFORE