Sunday, May 24, 2020

Remember the last time I emailed you, before we were all quarantined and dying because of government numbfuckery?  Man, those were the days......

Hope you're doing as good as can be, and avoiding everyone, and touching nothing.

Unless you're rioting in the streets to protest having to wear a mask in public places.  In which case, power to the people!!

Fuck the communists!

Piss on the deep state!


Latest book has finally been released, send yr address this way if you'd like a copy for review and general entertainment purposes.

But, in the name of all that is holy, DO NOT SHOOT UP WITH LYSOL.

Glad you're still alive!  Upstate NY seems to be fertile turf for inbred conspiracy theorists, so humor is one of the better weapons.  Smacking people in the head is a good one, too, but it's tougher when I have to social distance.....

Feel free to use my name.  I'm still trying to get on an enemies' list.  Seems like the perfect time for it.



Saturday, May 23, 2020

[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 

jun 2

and of course your father knew
you’d be the one who wouldn’t escape and
can you still hear the sound of his
drunken laughter?

did you get as
fucked-up as you wanted?

some high school girl naked on her hands and
knees in a motel room in the shitty part of town and
what choice does she have but to
smile for the camera?

easter sunday, let’s say

god or a gun or maybe both

don’t want to die but
                   so what?

happiness arrives like everything else,
and then it leaves again

sunlight filtered through poison
is still sunlight

door to the burning house is opened
and the women you love smiles

nothing but pain in her eyes
as she
tells you to come on in

John Sweet 


This man with his hands on fire,
with his chest cut open,
peeled back,
heart illuminated like the eyes of Christ,
the musicians warming up,
the planes coming in too low

Woman spreads her legs here,
gives birth to a war

Feeds it the bones of her children

Steps out of the car and she’s
already seven months pregnant again,
and the bomb is strapped across
her swollen stomach

The killing is in the name of God

He only hates you
because you’re human

John Sweet 

wounded ship on an ocean of dust

felt like late fall
all winter long

thought i was van gogh then
thought i was the crows

stood in the shadow of a
white stucco church on the west
side of town watching the sun slowly
drop behind february trees

considered where i might be able to get
30 pieces of silver
and listen

none of these wars are going to
be won in your lifetime or mine

none of these assholes in power really
care about you as a person, so
why do you keep voting for them?

is your life so empty you need the
drugs just to help you feel alive?

gotta keep right on the edge

gotta keep the anger from
slipping into desperation

the poets with their brains blown out
or the dead-eyed dauighters
doing internet porn

the kings just begging to be killed

the prophets chained to the
bumpers of pick up trucks then
dragged to pieces down gravel roads

do you choose to be a victim
or is the honor forced on you?

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

the other truth

honey loves her burning house says
she loves her father’s fists, says
the dream doesn’t mean anything

tell her the baby’s dead, tell her
her boyfriend’s a thief,
but all she wants to do is sing

all she wants to do is sleep

wake up smiling,
wipe the ashes from her eyes

John Sweet 

Friday, May 22, 2020

a smoldering sunset
listless mornings
insomnia running
the show
it's a song an old
lover dedicated to
you over fifteen
years ago
soon a smoldering
sunset and another
empty bottle
what if ran out of
reasons years ago
apathy gave birth
to a depression that
will eventually take
your life
happiness is as
foreign a concept
as teaching yourself
to speak russian
all the future bleakness
nostalgia is a cancer
that eats my brain
the alcohol seems
to be my fuse to
change that
for i no longer
think about old
lovers or past
those nights are
full of all the
future bleakness
that awaits these
golden years
death will surely
be a sweet relief
oh so close
and damaged
the soft curves
walking away
remind you
that you were
oh so close
to actually
enjoying life
it's the bottle
and wondering
if tonight is
the night you
cook up a shot
along comes the neon queen
walls closing in and that shotgun
in the corner looks so damn inviting
along comes the neon queen and
she places a virtual kiss upon your
suddenly, the storm clouds seem to lift,
much like as you hope that little black
dress she's wearing does as well
every blue moon these lonely nights
reveal a purpose for yet another trip
down that never-ending road of hope
like a machine gun
the words flow
some days like
a river
on the bad days
i think of them
flowing like a
machine gun
you can't have
a revolution
without a few
dead bleeding
into the earth
that cold reality
it's been years since
anyone has loved me
plenty tried to trick
me into thinking i
was loved
all in the name of
whatever fucking
scam they were
but that cold reality
slaps me in the face
each morning
it's not that i don't
want to be loved
it's not that at all
poor souls don't
have a chance in
this world anymore
a little coltrane for
the rest of the evening
contemplating suicide
while seeing what
watercolors do best
on cheap cardboard
i can't say i'm afraid
to die alone
it's not what i would
prefer but i'm also a
blunt realist
there's a shotgun in
the corner for a reason
J.J. Campbell

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