Macabre poetry for all your Momento Mori needs. Want ancient deluded angels? I got it. Want Poems about Feral Women? I got it. Want Pretty Verses about The Liminal Space that is the broken apocalypse world? This 👏bitch 👏has👏 it, fam! Also short fiction, flash fic and fan fic- I write it all folks. All writing is tagged, try searching #angels, #poem, or #jonnyblackwrites. Support Me!
PORTALS is a hand bound chapbook featuring poems and illustrations by yours truly! Surreal, dreamscape and liminal poems coupled with haunting line art. Support a poet today ✨️
Hi everyone! You may have seen my post here, about the stroke my Dad had on March, 6, 2023. In that post I asked for donations, since money is a bit tight right now and we're saving up most of our cash to pay our house bill. Well, I also a Teepublic and Redbubble you can purchase from! Every shirt is about a $2 profit for me, and every sale helps! If you can, spreading this post helps too! Thanks so much, and here are a few designs I have on Teepublic and Redbubble, available as shirts, stickers, pins, and everything else!:
If you want something in a specific colorway, let me know! Most everything has a black and white variant, with a few pinks and greens in there :) Thanks again!
Bringing my busking gig online! Writing poems on the spot has been such a fun way to connect with strangers. I wanted to bring that experience to strangers everywhere! If you like my poetry and want something just for you, click the link above :)
The scientist on the radio said that humans
will survive, and, at first, I was buoyed,
but she meant only some of us, the ones
living in tunnels, eating crickets to survive
when the rest had died from mass starvation
after droughts lasted longer and seas rose faster
and wars killed bigger because everyone
wanted what little was left. I’d be fine
with being one of the billions dead unless
you were still alive. Under a down comforter
or by a trash fire, I want to be where
you are. You know how poorly I dig holes,
how angry I get when I’m cold, how twice
I’ve accidentally maced myself and still
you’d take me with you down into the earth,
give me more than my fair share of caterpillar.
Few believe we’re in the middle of the end
because ruin can happen as slowly as plaque
blocking arteries, and only later feels as true
as your hand resting on my hip, both of us
quiet as roses waiting for the bees to arrive.
What's that poem about the cockroach and the moth where the cockroach is like "I wish I've ever wanted anything the way that moth wanted to burn itself up in that lantern" because we had to read that in high school and it still fucks me up to this day