Johnny Profane Âû

@johnnyprofane1.bsky.social

2662 Followers 1035 Following

One Voice. Raw. Real. Fiercely Neurodivergent. Since 1953. Podcast, YouTube, Newsletter. Find Me on Social Media: https://linktr.ee/johnnyprofane1

Book cover for "Autistic Noir: My Life Is My Art — An Autobiography. Autistic AF." by Johnny Profane Âû. Dark background with bold white and red title text. Below, a fragmented black-and-white collage of close-up eyes and a person in a knit cap facing a forest, evoking a noir, introspective mood. Tagline reads: "Built frag by frag. Just like I lived it... since 1953."
The Cruelest Knife Leaves No Scar You never feel the cruelest knife Poison-tipped with a pat on the head A smugly… gentle… smile Words so softly, warmly… said. He only said… “You’re flourishing. Even with autism. Good on you.” Judgment is like napalm Dropped benignly… safely… from on high Burning invisibly… under my skin. She casually said… “You got imposter syndrome. I got this book…?” Or some radiant dirty bomb Parachuting slyly… tenderly… Silently melting my guts inside. The manual simply read… “Neurodivergents think outside the box. That makes them perfect… for certain tasks.” Leaving a foul smell in the air Mustard gas masquerading… Like piercing gas-station incense Blindingly labelled, “Stay Calm.” Stealth Weapons of Mass Humiliation Or casual toxic caring Preening in plain sight Don't breed even sullen gratitude Just resentment. Rebellion. Sometimes? The worship of tyrants. You never feel the cruelest knife No, Not right away. A slice so sharp it leaves no scar So weird… that instant shapes my life.
The Cruelest Knife Leaves No Scar You never feel the cruelest knife Poison-tipped with a pat on the head A smugly… gentle… smile Words so softly, warmly… said. He only said… “You’re flourishing. Even with autism. Good on you.” Judgment is like napalm Dropped benignly… safely… from on high Burning invisibly… under my skin. She casually said… “You got imposter syndrome. I got this book…?” Or some radiant dirty bomb Parachuting slyly… tenderly… Silently melting my guts inside. The manual simply read… “Neurodivergents think outside the box. That makes them perfect… for certain tasks.” Leaving a foul smell in the air Mustard gas masquerading… Like piercing gas-station incense Blindingly labelled, “Stay Calm.” Stealth Weapons of Mass Humiliation Or casual toxic caring Preening in plain sight Don't breed even sullen gratitude Just resentment. Rebellion. Sometimes? The worship of tyrants. You never feel the cruelest knife No, Not right away. A slice so sharp it leaves no scar So weird… that instant shapes my life.
A dark-themed social media post from the account “theconcealedweapon” describes a communication gap between autistic and neurotypical people. The post begins with the heading: “What an autistic person says: ‘How long is it going to take?’” Below that, in smaller text, it explains what the autistic person means: “I want to know whether to activate my short term waiting mode where I just wait and do nothing else, or activate my long term waiting mode where I occupy my mind with something else. I fully understand that both are possibilities, and I have no problem whatsoever with either one, but I want more information so I can best adapt to the situation.” A final section, labeled “What neurotypical people hear,” reads: “I am impatient and demand that everything I want happen right now. Please scold me and publicly humiliate me for it.”
Johnny (Knapp) Profane Âû, an older white man with short gray hair and beard, speaks directly to camera in close-up against a dark background. Artistic overlays fade in/out: desert landscapes, family photos, abstract grief symbols. He delivers raw spoken word on AuDHD family estrangement, masking, estrangement from a sister, and choosing shameless living. Strong emotion, defiant tone, occasional hand gestures. Video ~2 minutes.
White text in black background reads, *wanna know what is autistic badass? Telling the truth directly. without hostility. Swearing and anger? Common as dirt. Honest communication is fucking rare."
Close-up color photo of an older person in a dark hat, half their face in warm sunlight and half in shadow, with shimmering leaf shadows across their skin; to the left, short orange text reads “Be more me. / My fiercely neurodivergent… me. / Taken 7 decades to rediscover me. / Still digging out from not being... me.”
Black‑and‑white abstract illustration with frantic, gestural linework in a diagonal, vortex‑like composition. A suggested figure emerges in upper middle of a male in a hat, suit & tie. A dense dark tangle with a circular “eye” anchors the lower left; another dark ring with a faint face floats at upper right. Lighter scratched lines sweep through the center. The style is expressionist and reminiscent of Franz Kline and Cy Twombly, evoking sensory overload and inner psychological chaos.
Black‑and‑white illustration of an old gravestone in a small rural cemetery. A tall, narrow 19th‑century headstone stands in the center, rounded at the top and slightly leaning, so it almost feels like a tired body rather than a simple marker. Any original inscription is worn away or not shown. On the left, a sugar maple tree frames the stone; its trunk and foliage are built from dense, scratchy ballpoint lines. In the upper right, a few smaller gravestones and another tree appear more faintly, suggesting the rest of the village graveyard.The whole image is drawn in restless pen strokes over a pale digital watercolor wash, so there are no flat whites—everything shivers with layered marks and soft gray tone. The technique echoes engraving or scratchboard, but with a looser, more anxious energy and automatic writing markings. Visually, it connects to the themes of “My Friend Billy”: a grave that is clearly old, yet still vibrantly present, like a memory that refuses to fade; grief that doesn’t resolve neatly; and the sense of a friend who remains upright and alive in the mind long after the body is gone.
THAT SONG I’LL NEVER SING TO MY SON Like some angel With a dislocated shoulder Half f l y i n g H a l f falling Younger to older From the day I was born. Tumbling to earth Rushing up below Body on f i r e H e a r t aflame In s l o – m o , a horror picture show… To a silent piano score… Like that song I’ll never sing To my son. Like that song Like this song…. Don’t be a dick Real talk… It’s harder than you think… Listen up, listen up… Maybe… Don’t mask… protecting others Don’t please yourself Less than bosses & lovers… Hold up… Most of all… Don’t forget To have a kid Like you might Forget That call-in contest You just knew You could win Cuz you knew all the words…. Gimme a minute. I need a minute… Stay safe. Stay weird. Stay fierce. Like some angel Thrown outta heaven H a l f falling Half f l y i n g From what should’ve been… The day I was born. Like that song On that game show… That I’ll never sing… To that son I never had Hell, Like this song.
Complex image. I'll post alt text shortly.
Digital book cover by Johnny Profane Âû, "every clock is a handgun pointed at my head." Textured background with scattered photographs and postcards in collage style. Title in typewriter font suggests urgency, anxiety. Clock imagery throughout reinforces time pressure themes. Images include vintage clocks, shadowy figures, "SUPERPOWER FREE ZONE" sign. Raw, authentic aesthetic reflects autistic experience poetry collection. Handwritten elements add personal, unpolished feel. Evokes memory fragments, time anxiety, lived neurodivergent reality. Digital tools included AI