j christ and pilate and even that fucker michelangelo

 

everything reminds me of something you said

 

every one of us the enemy of freedom

 

i'd be your future/boy

 

ghost of a moon nailed to a pale blue sky

 

give up christ, give up all those pretty songs

 

vscorpiozine

 

 

https://vscorpiozine.wordpress.com/2022/12/29/poem-by-john-sweet-with-broken-wings-with-bruised-hearts/

 

 

 

 

everything spoken through a mouthful of sawdust and dogshit

 

NEW WORK AT

THE INSANELY

AWESOME

 

INK

PANTRY

 

https://www.inkpantry.com/poetry-drawer-walk-away-like

-a-fool-in-mercy-blind-heretic-with-broken-wings-with-bruised-hearts-

one-from-the-valley-of-ashes-a-wasted-mouthful-by-john-sweet/

 

 

in the morning when i wake up i don't like what i see

 

poem for the death of hope/poem for america

 

IF I WERE ME......

 

sucking cock in some small town back alley

 

or that the smell of sex is no different than the smell of blood

 

wake up lost in the middle of august and already the air tastes like autumn

 

in these cupped hands holding nothing

 

a sound like christ

denying the pain

 

a cold sunlit morning filled

with junkie priests and shadow kings

 

the lie that all of these wars are

different and not tied together by the

same ropes of ignorance

and greed

 

and it was a mistake

i made once, not numbering

myself among the cowards

 

it was my father who

showed me the light

 

knew we might not all be nowhere

but we are all still nothing

 

we are all the flesh of god left

rotting at the freeway’s edge

 

can’t spend our lives being afraid

to dig for the humor buried

down underneath

all of that blood-soaked pain