P.O. JOHNSON

Down the Ladder

barren computer rooms
this time of night it´s just me left

so i fled up the corroded roof
a bottle in each hand
drinking alone
in the south-american desert
with only the airglow as company

frosted stars
cycle of life
and the noise of heavy fans
beside the esa compound

i get sentimental by alcohol

and depressed like hell
in the desert

setting sail down the ladder
weightless by clumsy orbital trim manoeuvres
a solar wind passes before i
slip and fall on my back

i was right and now i’m left
under this body of brilliant stars
spiked drag queens
seeing the first rays of sun
as it rises behind barb wire fencing

Cold Dynamite

Absorption against
the cement wall
smells good
the Dutchman’s cold dynamite tells me
our bond strength is
so tight
walking around the caulking compound
smoking
it’s Monday morning
a mist is imminent

Space Between Planets

calibrate Venus celestial
to the wet grave
the active surge regions are
spike-like

she is the space between planets
a void of pink layers
clearing the rain
parting with the
delicate sheets of stratosphere
for nothing

© P.O. Johnson 2020

P.O. Johnson is currently dividing his time between Norway and Sweden. He loves space mechanics, industrial rock and baroque. P.O. is also a dedicated husband and a salsa dancer. His texts have for example appeared in Fosebook‘s publications and in the online literary journal Rufous Salon.