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
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 

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...