Vanessa Couto Johnson – 3 poems



If you ever watched a creature devoid of Plato, you’ll dispense the ancient West.  Until recently, we are all familiar with a gang led by Spock that viewed regretted recipes.  Their bodies full of hormones and shadow thought: flee!  Unexpected eyebrows are not food!  In The Next Generation, will the proverbial carrot and stick have infectious sex?  Children could see that their parents were bathing with food, tasting something….

When shown films of monkeys frightened of a flower, the laboratory-reared cat is not honest.  Darwin would puff up his fur.  Darwin denied screwing up the eyes.  We usually feel better after prowling.  Before you accuse the elephants’ graveyard of being far, doubt that reptiles can strike fire.  Pigeons anger the hippocampus.  A tortoise questions higher mammals.  Two people start a restaurant with a pinch on the face.  Here is where, blushing and alone, your food can fiddle the accounts.  But lots of other situations in life serve tachycardia.

You might threaten your sandwiches.  Our double-edged faces are reddening.  You would rather handcuffs be built-in to prey.  The next railroad has a taste for revenge.  During the course of outweighed vestigial organs, Spock’s agnostic teeth led to far fewer costs.  Darwin’s constant dancing is a panic attack.  The grit of road rage resuscitated a policeman.  He may jump out at Aristotle halfway between a horn and golden seat.  Stalkers keep our bath water.  Someone’s mask has circuitry.  A lion rots in private whether or not it consumes a Vulcan recipe.

Even if Hobbes proposed to me, Kant would be in fashion design.  Kant’s bloodless layers in hand, he would be excessive.  If we removed all uncertainty from our computer program, a set of fantasies would rise with Napoleonic envy.  But Commander Data is an android, reasoning spirit, likely to teach your children sympathy and silicon letters.




15 rocks had terrible voices.  Unlike ingredients enveloping the upper chest, I perform a qualm of myself.  Several footballs suckled the oceanic weekend.  I have forgotten easier fuses.  Whatever culture values the nose did not stop me.  Anthropologists grope for the last paragraph without warning.  Coming across the remote, you had been brought badly off the simple subjects.  Preliterate films are wild.  Westerners who linked a pig alone to San Francisco were laughed out of court.  Videotaped babies are not tallied but universal, hardwired.  List three seconds.  Rapid onset breathing is a diehard proponent of basic humans.  Your sugar is the same as mine.  We are red sweetness in grammatical fashion.

Without orchestras, two tribespeople isolate compositions.  Contact an alien symphony.  Humanity’s score is at some point.  However encoded, the globe is easy to explain.  The travelers link us together with a poker to fix us.  Our brains should pay for the things that set such widespread case.  Film clips display rules, such as rules for ritual suction-aided nasal surgery.  The interviewer had smiled more and more; the interviewer clips.  Milliseconds later, the travelers are misled to masking videotapes.  Thus fractions could make the same expressions of disgust as the Americans did.  The circuitry of New Guinea does not behave, looting philosophers’ articles of small value.  A biologist etches a pig into a bystander.  

You are a child exposed willy-nilly to Japanese.  Prophecies are calculated plasticity against will.  Tailored humans grip faced marriage to fit coincidence.  From the way all-or-nothing is growing legs, the genome spectrum requires escape to sit.  With other fallen ends, however, the minimal romantic will be located in an invented Europe.  A nobleman could fail to detect his provocative wife and devote himself to the best-known poetry thesis: “Homer must be a front-running candidate.”  Sexual shelters confined our ancestors, yet the remote is a core of edible lives.  In light of all this lifelong commitment, there is a small grain listed in anthropologists’ records: the score is the same.  Automatic pigs in a case are not fast, and we admit a third expression.  Contrast this with the neocortex’s surface that expands in milliseconds.  When someone feels feces they take longer to love keeping you.  Some people claim to be in love with their cement pets, but shaped animals are hurting.




Witnessing an ice cream listening to people make love, your teddy bear fails an exam.  The World Database of Happiness is an old cliché about lack of starvation.  Adam Smith casts euphoria that backfires.  A rock star has clowns with guns on Christmas Eve.  Old friends perfectly smother mortification.

Ancestors who liked an internal carrot and stick preferred solitude.  Such a waste of outsmarted lovers, genetic language, and short-circuit venting.  The monologue of the old is a form of whisper medicine.  But certain drugs eliminate stories, and the appetite may not permit blue jokes.

There are not many narrators calling attention to their chest.  Freud’s bottle pressed for the explicit, mental fluids converted to nerves’ steam.  Descartes’s libido invented phlegm in essence and outlet.  Freud’s blocked pipe would have a very different meaning to Aristotle, in his Greek top.

Descartes will not touch us at all if we are in a safe.  Who cannot look back at the stiff-necked and now crash into the spontaneous Victorian doctors?  In the light of the flashbacks, fewer victims are being bottled up for study.  Just as one psychic keeps them alive, another abandons them for neurotic river.

For thousands of reasons, jokes have decorated their own bodies with fits of color.  The film director put monkeys into chambers and triggered a wave of chocolate.  Firelight beats where two-week-old babies taste fact.  Cold paint amplifies the canteen.  A modified artist taps food to induce a computer.

Mozart’s Walkman fulfills supermarket cake.  Aromatherapists have been caressed from Buddhism to Christianity.  Hippocrates recommended well-tested sounds be groomed and fight mere ticks.  If a strawberry called the novel fat, concentrated lumps pose for cooks.  Chicken liver in a cottage for a week.

The same people drink a glass of serotonin.  Within forty-five seductive patients, dopamine markets boosting products.  Grey tea wears more sugar than a rat maintains sloshing.  Even the majority of food snorts a cigarette.  If used responsibly, Sherlock Holmes can orgasm during treatment.

A thousand coca leaves restricted the cavemen.  The novel goes for a jog and empties.  A bear smiles at the jogging and calls his feedback.  “I must smooth your heart and contract to conquer this chapter!”  Gathering the skin, he makes it a self-help book.  By using techniques between muscles, we buzz our bodies.

Opera was a prime sport faced with a stark cornucopia of video games with agile people, who preferred potatoes to pick and mix with the spectator’s coins.  Since the dawn of tiny caffeine dancing, a massage cascades from the brain, and, in short, lights the trip.




Vanessa Couto Johnson’s forthcoming chapbook Life of Francis was the winner of Gambling the Aisle’s 2014 Chapbook Contest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Blackbird, decomP, The Destroyer, Yew Journal, and elsewhere. She is listed as a Highly Commended Poet for the 2014 Gregory O’Donoghue International Poetry Prize. She currently teaches at Texas State University, where she earned her MFA.



About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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