Wednesday, February 12, 2020

liquid ecstasy
 
she's the kind of woman
that you imagine what
she would taste like
while sitting on your
face before you even
see her
 
cherries and sunshine
 
liquid ecstasy
 
the last tab of desire
you put under your
tongue
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
flushed down a toilet
 
i never bothered to
ask for permission
or seek any forgiveness
 
what’s the point
 
i'm pretty sure hell
isn't any worse than
the last forty years
on this earth
 
i told my mother i want
to be cremated and put
it an ocean or flushed
down a toilet
 
it's all the same to me
by then anyways
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
only get you so far
 
the neon angel
doesn't talk to
me much anymore
 
apparently, love
can only get you
so far in this century
------------------------------------------------------------------
no relief ever came
 
blessed with a talent
where most of the
money comes once
you die
 
i once sat in the
middle of the street
on a busy afternoon
 
i waited patiently
 
no relief ever came
 
the cops used to
drive me home
on saturday nights
 
white privilege at
its finest
-----------------------------------------------------------
without hardly any snow
 
yet another
winter without
hardly any
snow
 
thank god
my schooling
years are long
behind me now
 
i completely
understand why
the youth are
in revolt
-----------------------------------------------------------
the load of a broken soul

i'm used to the pain, 
the side eyed looks 
from afar

my demons are always 
looking for a party

while my body is 
constantly tapping 
out

the bad back is done 
carrying the load of 
a broken soul

sadly, arthritis has me 
at the point where even 
a crawl is damn near 
impossible

time to find a vein 
and double the dosage
-------------------------------------------------------------
J.J. Campbell

Tuesday, February 11, 2020

Seriously, are we having fun yet?

I don't recall signing up to be a member of the Fascist Nation, yet here I am, knee deep in mouth breathers and cousin-humpers.

I keep hoping that if I write enough, eventually one of these illiterate guardians of pseudo-patriotism will learn how to read well enough to read some of my stuff and stick me on an enemies list.

How cool would that be?

In the meantime, I guess we all just keep walkin' with the beast...……...

John Sweet

[as the band began to play, out of tune]


useless godking with his
broken hands nailed to the floor

not faith but a
lust for power

sound of newborn babies
crushed beneath bootheels

sound of laughter

and are you a motherfucker or
are you an asshole?

a dead man, either way, but
maybe not for a few years yet

play your cards right

cum when you can,
lie when you can’t

ignore the stench of progress

write down the name of
every corpse you find

consider the day when this list
finally comes to an end

John Sweet


and i was driving to work when i
heard the news about cobain

was saddened
but not surprised

had reasons to live that i
wouldn’t let go of

hated myself
               yes
but hated the rest of you
that much more

John Sweet

a confession for the queen of open wounds


no comfort
this deep into january,
only losses

only victims

zero times zero which is
all the religion you’ll need,
or at least it’s all i’ll offer

a simple act of drowning once we
break through the ice and
was this the desert you’d always dreamt of?

shades of pale blue and grey

bones of forgotten survivors,
of missing children

faceless man who tells you christ is
the answer, and have his eyes been gouged out or
was he born without them?

how best to ask?

or else your father
who was a lifetime believer in good times

who died of depression

left behind debt and
the gift of self-doubt

a house on fire and a room filled
with masks you almost recognize and
                                           now what?

broken glass and twisted metal and
still january, right?

the drowning boy trapped
beneath the river’s surface

nothing on the horizon but february

i have no memories of ever
being in love there

John Sweet 

Friday, January 31, 2020

No Gods, no Heroes,
only women and Hector


The misdirected vengeance of Hera.
Grey-eyed Athena’s wrath and jealousy,
and Dionysus, bringer of merciless punishment –
(feral mother ripping the limbs from her son, unknowingly,
but when awakened, an internal bonfire grief
beyond extinguishing.)

Hector was the only noble hero –
shouldering his course and obeying his love.

Crafty Odysseus tossed baby-Astyanax from the towers of Troy.
Crazed Achilles knew only the fury of his passion as he
flooded Scamander with the cut-up corpses of his mad rage.
Ajax the Great impaled himself in service to his affronted ego,
and Ajax the Lesser – a coward rapist of the prophet pure Cassandra.

Give me one-eyed blindness, stay on the path, past
Hecuba and her wild rivers of unfathomable suffering – childless
when once a mother of many, Queen of an honoured realm.

Give me Electra over Hera with her young-woman’s devotion
and subterranean heart, tied to a father that would have killed
her as he did sister-Iphigenia
on the pyre-offering of war, victory and fame.

Give me a settled glory – my God of Mercy instead of candles, Jesus
instead of Apollo’s thick sensuous thighs or golden curls,
demanding matricide of Orestes.

Give me Helen in her betrayal of red-haired Menelaus, Helen,
daughter of the Swan, lover of pretty-boy Paris, Helen,
mascot and scapegoat of war, but never the cause.

Give me Clytemnestra over Agamemnon, daughter
too of the Swan, bearer of a mother’s authentic wound -
Iphigenia lost on the bloody rock
by obeyer-of-Zeus, mighty-father
Agamemnon’s royal hand.

Zeus, kind only to sycophants,
Zeus, serial adulterer, user of woman,
sire of many children, lusting as the sunlight lusts
for Earth, to seep warmth into her crust
and heat up the whole of her surface,
demanding offspring life.

Give me Penelope over
teller-of-tall-tales, Cyclops-outwitter,
slaughter-of-suitors Odysseus.
Penelope, with her patient intelligence weaving,
unweaving, keeper of fidelity
for twenty years, holding her own
up against the plight of a woman’s, even a Queen’s,
accepted inequality.

Give me poor Io, chased in her heifer-frame
from flat plains to cliff ridges
to Prometheus’s cursed crucifixion to
finally a resting point in Ethiopia –
Poor Io, ancestor of the brute-blooded Hercules,
who claimed madness-by-Hera turned him
into a murderer of his wife and sons,
who was no Hector, only
undefeated.

Give me Andromache’s zodiac-fingerprint,
for she held Hector inside the cavity of her loins,
and he loved her, and they both knew
happiness.


© Allison Grayhurst 2020

liquid ecstasy   she's the kind of woman that you imagine what she would taste like while sitting on your face before you ...