‘Trick Or Treatment?’ & Collected Poems

Johnny Tang (b. 1985) is a fine art photographer specializing in a surreal and cinematic brand of imagery. Johnny began his creative career as a break dancer, before going on to receive his BFA in photography from Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). Johnny’s recent exhibitions include: Any Shape or Form at Upstream Gallery, Counter Weight at Brooklyn Bridge Park, and Skeleton Crawl Pop-Up Gallery in East Williamsburg. When he is not being published by the likes of: Neocha, Daily Mail, VSCO, or Slant’d. Johnny also works commercially, having worked with clients such as Red Bull and Sony Music.

Trick Or Treatment?

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Dragging feet, shoulders slumped

I trudge through the apothecary

Clutching a chicken-scratched paper

With white-knuckled desperation.

Navigating the maze of syrups, pills, and potions

A carousel of herbs, salves, and elixirs

Failed attempts of yore

Spin my splitting head dizzy.

Must history insist on repeating itself?

I’ve long grown tired of this song and dance.

But the luxury of surrender is not for the ill fated

So I persist in pursuit of my great white whale.

I weave between the uniform rows of remedies

empty promises and warnings I cannot afford to heed.

Rigid arms full of alchemy, I approach the swindler’s till.

Joints crackling with each arduous shuffle.

I draw a weary smile from my depleted fuel reserve

Only to find apathy where his human face should be.

I offer my pocket for the picking, as is custom.

Homeward bound again, I depart with my bag of tricks.

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Cloudy With A Chance Of Pain

I remember the percussion on my nursery window.

Nature’s cradlesong coaxing me to forfeit,

My stubborn embargo on sleep.

I remember the umbrella adorned with princesses.

How I longed to see the first drizzle of fall and,

The covetous faces of my cohorts.

I remember how storms disrupted classroom tedium.

“The kids are in rare form today,” teachers said,

barking futile protests at our revelry.

I remember asking him to kiss me in the downfall.

The foreshadowing was lost on me back then,

A lovesick Pollyanna I recall with lenity.

I remember me before I was a paper marionette.

Before the atmosphere controlled my strings,

and a puddle could dissolve me.

I remember the girl I was before the feeding frenzy.

Before nimbostratus clouds were Megaladons,

their jaws extended to mangle my body.

I remember Thunder’s power ballads from before.

Before he stopped composing serenades for me,

replacing songs in my head with screams.

That familiar aroma wraps me in a quilt of nostalgia.

A perfume of celestial waters and terrestrial soil,

Now a bitter-sweet memory of when I loved rain.

Maladaptive

As of late, much of my time is spent 

Wanting

In a way that feels akin to 

Waiting

But not for some unrequited love—pining, 

Or for sunshine on a dreary day—longing, 

Not even for a warm embrace—yearning.

Day in and out, I sit in my bedroom utterly 

Wantful

But not upon a star—wishful, 

Or the eye of God—watchful, 

Not even from memory—wistful.

I want in the ways I did as a child:

My neighbor’s wind chimes, 

My best friend’s kaleidoscope, 

My music teacher’s bamboo rain stick.

No green envy, 

No spoiled silver spoon, 

No red hand to catch stealing.

My want resides in my innocence, 

Worships at the Cathedral of Destiny, 

Works overtime in my daydream factory.

I’m a student anticipating graduation, 

The owner of an arriving merchant ship, 

An expectant mother in her third trimester.

My kismet wanting waits at the ready, 

But for what I’ve forgotten.

I fear no degree or riches, not even a baby 

Will satiate this want of mine.

I fear ceaseless waiting.

So, perhaps I’ll retrace my steps back to 

The bamboo rain stick, 

The kaleidoscope, 

And wind chimes,

To rediscover vibrations, colors, and sounds 

Where my soul first saw its reflection.

Maybe what I want is a looking glass.

Whale Fall

There once was a lone

Blue Whale

separated from her pod,

roaming icy waters like a

satellite in space.

Sick and starving

she called out into the ether,

a swan song

for an audience of none.

Upon her final breath

her Titanic body fell silent

sinking slowly towards

the seafloor

where she would find

her final resting place.

But from her demise

came generations

of thriving creatures

who dwell in the barren

ocean depths.

Octopus, crabs, and eels

attended her grand feast.

Leftovers enriched the

surrounding sediment.

Colonies of invertebrates

settled in her bones.

Her fallen flesh

nourished an entire ecosystem;

a legacy transcendent,

a purpose resurrected.

Strong Meat

The most tender parts of me

lay upon a butcher’s block,

sprawled across the rings

of an old tree round.

We have this in common,

the tree and I—

chopped down from where

we once stood tall.

Shall I, too, be reborn

into something useful?

Maybe my good bits will be

Frankenstein-ed together,

reimagined and made anew.

But then, what is to become

of my discarded offal?

It’s probably for the best;

trim the fat and toss the scraps

so that I may be beautifully plated

and palatable.

But I’m starting to think

it would be far less painful

to be put out to pasture.

Alexandra Nimmo is an actress (GTA Online) and self-taught emerging poet from Nashville, TN. Her debut publication was recently featured in The Rising Phoenix Review and Alexandra is currently working on a full-length poetry collection about her chronic illness journey. https://linktr.ee/lexinimmo