Archive for the John Sweet Category

Three Poems by John Sweet

Posted in John Sweet with tags on February 12, 2018 by Scot

down canyons of static

cold as snow as
cold as christ and we’ll
make it warm with
gasoline

we’ll set that fucker on fire
in the back of his truck

will leave the baby at the
desert’s edge with a guitar and
a handful of broken glass
and we’ll teach it the myth of
robert johnson

we’ll place it’s fragile skull
between the boot heel
and the rock

we’ll sing to it softly
until morning comes

____________

one from the age of subtle atrocities

living close to water
and without fear

living alone with the
wife and the secrets

small failures mean nothing
in windowless rooms,
small victories even less

look

it isn’t a story,
but an idea

man locks his daughter in
the basement when she’s
18 and then keeps her there
for 24 years

rapes her

fathers her children

signs deals for the movie,
the sequel,
the video game

considers god like you
would a second helping
of dessert

considers dessert

all of these choices to
be made while the crows
gather outside your
door

____________

 

lover

blurred outlines january late
afternoon grey houses in early evening
light, this woman who will set her child on fire,
these young men who will rape a teenage girl then
leave her in a vacant lot, this moment that will
arrive already ruined beyond repair and then
the one after that and then the
one after that

and the war, of course,
and without an end in sight

the mindless need for victory

the makers of bombs and of poison gases
balanced out by the
need for money to survive

the future still only a theory but
the possibilities narrowing

woman at the edge of the road opens a
can of lighter fluid and
all we have left is despair

Advertisements

amphetamine christ by John Sweet

Posted in John Sweet with tags , on November 24, 2016 by Scot

and you w/ yr faded blue wings and
that i am tired of distance

that i am a believer in
both depression and resurrection

an addict and a savior but
this is nothing
special in the age of relentless fear

will you vote?

will you pull the trigger?

such limited choices for a
country that promised us everything

a lot of starving dogs but no
shortage of overdosed whores

no shortage of hypocrites
spewing meaningless platitudes

man spends his whole life being
some greedy motherfucker, spends it
being some righteous saint, and
no one notices any difference

we are living through the
numbered days of minor kings who
crawl through alleyways of filth

who would rape their own children if
it gave them more power

and you w/ yr pale grey thoughts and
me stumbling like tiresias
through cold october sunlight

that i am afraid for my sons

that each poem is a
confession of failure

yours and mine both

Two poems by John Sweet

Posted in John Sweet with tags on December 2, 2015 by Scot

 

the poet w/out hands, w/out a tongue

sat there wanting to
write something
sat there thinking about
all of the things i’d said to you
and all of the things i’d
kept to myself
knew the priests would
end up devouring the children

knew the idea of democracy
was just one more weapon
for the rich to beat the
poor with
had a song going through
my mind but i
couldn’t remember the words
was watching it snow
outside an upstairs window
listened to the sounds the
animals made as they starved
to death by slow degrees

____________

portrait

says he’s tired of being poor
says he’s tired of letting the
dogs fuck his wife blind

is sick of christ screaming on
the bathroom floor, and
he tells me it’s time to move on
tells me columbine is
ancient history
says no one gives a shit about
andrea yates anymore
the fields are black with the
blood of the
unloved and the unwanted
the malls are all built on
the corpses of indians
we’ve come too far to let
our failures
stand in the way of progress

for carolyn wearing the crown of pain by John Sweet

Posted in John Sweet with tags on October 26, 2014 by Scot

on the other side of the continent
in the wrong part of the year,
bleeding ice-cold sunlight and
thinking about st maria and last blurry
fucked up days of dennis wilson

waiting for the children to run away

waiting for judas and his
latest girlfriend and when he finally arrives
he brings a copy of exile on main st
and a bottle of wine

smiles and says the
brightest days are behind us

knows in his heart that there is no
end in this world to the list of
things not worth dying for