THE INFINITE REALM OF HOPE

...AND ALL OF US SINGING THOSE LOWDOWN MOTHERFUCKER BLUES

LOVE, AND OTHER THINGS

A PILE OF NOTHING, LIKE AS NOT

MONET, IN THE UPSTATE DESERT

LIFE IS SO BEAUTIFUL; I'VE BECOME IRRATIONAL

YOU AND I AND THE CITY OF GHOSTS

the child, cut in two

not the dying man
but his reasons


his hands
which are grabbing


which are empty and so
what would you
fill them with?


the bones of his children
is an obvious answer
so look past it


reinvent the circle
if you have to


build a better bomb


we have been in this desert
too long now and eating
nothing but the dreams
of the starving


we have been bleeding
for as long as we can
remember but
listen


every day brings us
closer to a darker age


every war is the one
that cannot be lost


this is what we tell the
widows as
we undress them

PUTIN ON A RITZ

Let’s have a warm hand for the Russian trolls

who have returned

to view my website.

Rock on, fuckers!!!!!!!

But seriously -

buy a book.

eight month-old infant beaten to death by his mother's boyfriend (three variations)

    1.


run towards the idea like
you would a wall
of rusted razor blades


drag fistfuls
through your hair
down your face up the
insides of your thighs


don't ask for reasons why



    2.


which face do you see
when you
look in the mirror?


are you surprised?



    3.


or what about dahmer
beaten to death on
a prison floor?


is it a thought that
makes you smile?


good

BITTER NEWS FOR A DYING WORLD

A BARREN FIELD, A DEAD LAWN, ROADSIDE DITCHES

MORE

DUBIOUS

WISDOM

@

POETiCA

REViEW

http://poeticareview.com/john-sweet/

 

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN..... THE MONKEY'S ASSHOLE

To quote the late, great Aristotle - 

"What the fuck is wrong with

this freak's face?

THE SUN, DOWN FROM THE SKY

BECAUSE THE KINGDOM OF NIL IS ALL YOU DESERVE

BECAUSE YOU WERE NEVER WORTH MUCH

THE GOLDEN AGE OF COMMUNICATION

a girl is found murdered

or she isn't found


or a girl is found
and then she's murdered


is lost


is maybe raped or maybe
filmed while being raped


is told to smile


is told to stop her fucking crying


is told not to stop and
she cries while she keeps
doing whatever it is she's been
                                          told to


she cries and
then she's murdered


she's found


she has been there
all along

HOLY & INTOXICATED

THANK YOU JOHN D. ROBINSON

AND HOLY & INTOXICATED PUBLICATIONS

NEW WORK IN THE POETRY CARDS SERIES 9

LIMITED EDITION,

SIGNED & NUMBERED,

INCLUDED WITH BOOK ORDERS

DIRECTLY FROM ME

FOR A VERY LIMITED TIME

TRANSMISSION STATIC

TREAT YOURSELF RIGHT BECAUSE SOMEDAY YOU'LL BE DEAD

SANDY IS LOOKING TO RAISE SOME OPERATING CAPITAL FOR

FLUTTER PRESS.

DONATE OR, BETTER YET, ORDER:

https://flutterpress2009.blogspot.com/2016/04/approximate-wilderness-by-john-sweet.html

HOPE AGAINST HOPE

DRUGGIES SMELL LIKE SHIT, LOOK LIKE DEATH

NOT RELIGION, TRUTH

THINKING HIS DEATH MIGHT JUST BE A DREAM YOUR SISTER HAD

SALVATION FOR ALL, BUT NOT YOU

I AM TIRED OF NO LONGER HAVING THE STRENGTH TO HATE MYSELF

NEW RUMINATIONS

AT REBELLE SOCIETY

http://www.rebellesociety.com/2019/09/02/johnsweet-when/

MY CATS TAKE SHITS THAT ARE SMARTER THAN DONNY TRUMP

On Sunday, Trump was asked if he had any message for Poland on the 80th anniversary of Nazi Germany’s invasion.

“I just want to congratulate Poland,” Trump replied, adding, “It’s a great country with great people.”

vast fields beyond the kingdom walls

in the aftermath of the war,

any war really,
they stood their at the edge of the freeway,
three indians,
and we drove past with our pockets full of their  children’s’ bones,
with the sunlight hard against our eyes,
and the starving went unmentioned

the sky was blue, like time frozen and made holy,

and the trees had just begun to turn

it was that last year before the true famine,

when we still believed in miracles,
when we still knew the names of every saint

it was three indians on the side of the road,

and one of them blind,
and i couldn’t make out the sign he held,
and then we were past

it was a dream about starving children devoured by wolves

and i couldn’t speak

stood nailed to the railroad tracks,

sat frozen on the living room floor while the flames approached,
fell endlessly down some abandoned well,
and when i woke up the sun was in my eyes

we were moving fast past dead black water,

past the dead black trees that rose up leafless out of it

it was three tiny crosses on the side of the highway,

markers left by anonymous hands and
nothing in any direction for a hundred miles,
and it was a wreath of dying flowers

it was where the bodies had been found,

or maybe where they’d last been seen

the air was chalkwhite and dizzying,

hot,
thick with tar and gasoline

it was summer,

towards the end of the war

we were neither here nor there

with wounded hearts, in ecstasy

and all of the washed-out days,

and all of the bitter ones

sunlight,

but no warmth

no shadows

and what now, when you’ve

become the old man you swore
you’d never become?

listen

two dreams last night, and both

of them about a woman i
loved when i was still immortal,
and so i woke up sick with loss

woke up bathed in the

soft glow of my children

waited until the wolves had

eaten their fill, then
opened the door to let them in

WHO WE ARE IN THE AGE OF IGNORANCE