when you left, i had nothing to write about but myself

 

main street fever dream

 

[come out, and live with a religious community in a beautiful place out in the country]

 

SEASON OF RAIN, KINGDOM OF ASHES

 

AVAILABLE NOW

not the artist, but the artist's lover

 

a god more than willing to number me among the wicked

 

DELICATE EMISSIONS

[we've been here for too long; not long enough]

 

a nail through the tongue or a spike through the heart

FUCK IT,

LET'S JUST START 2026

WITH A PUNCH IN THE THROAT

NOW AVAILABLE

 

late winter in the kingdom of nil

 

can’t keep voting for dogs then complaining about the taste of their shit

NEW COLLECTION FROM

FAE CORPS 

drank the water, but it was poisoned

 

in a room without doors there is no need for windows

JOHN SWEET AT

CYBERWIT

like fucking on shattered glass

 

THE 21ST CENTURY,

WITHOUT APOLOGY

A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE

PHYSICAL COPY

OR

FREE PDF

cover yr ears & shade yr eyes

 

let the words fall from your lips like tiny pieces of some poisoned god

NEW WORK AT

INK PANTRY 

all of the reasons christ might have for hating you

 

you get tired of being told what to do, but so what?

 

BECAUSE THE TRUTH OF EVERY GOD IS A LIE

 

a target since the day you were born, a victim until the day you die

 

the dead man digs you, motherfucker

AVAILABLE NOW 

the nature of true disappointment

 

maybe the poem is written in rust-colored blood on a pale blue bedroom wall

 

JOHN SWEET AT 

CYBERWIT

hope for the hopeless, drugs for everyone else

 

everything the prophet said, and all the fools who doubted him

 

ORAZIO SALATI 

@

THE ROBERSON CENTER

 

tell your lover that each passing hour just pushes the book of passing days one page closer to the end

 

those last holy days in the kingdom of oblivion

 

the fine art of growing fat off the flesh of corpses

 

SOME

SMOOTH

FUCKING 

GRAVY

FROM

HIDDEN HAND PRESS

turquoise

 

words written in the street

 

on the sides

where the garbage collects

and all of them stained with salt

 

distant

like the voices of ghosts

or faint like the sun in february

and what she says is that she

doesn't want to fight anymore

 

where we are is the fraying edge

of someone else's city

 

seventy miles an hour and

the prayers that wrap around us like

rusty wire

 

the houses that have burned

and the ones

that are dying slowly

 

the fields where nothing grows

 

where christ is just a rumor

and the crows are all starving and

what she says is that she

thinks we're lost

 

what she says is that

the pills aren't working

 

and i take her hand and

think about what happens next

the dead man found on the bathroom floor

SOMETHING NEW

AND BEAUTIFUL AT

POETRY MIC 

not drunk yet, but moving in the right direction

 

NEW WORK AT

RED OGRE REVIEW

everyone is dead, and nothing ever dies

 

The 20th Annual Poetry E-Book Free-For-All

there's always some jerkoff who insists on getting shot to death

NEW WORK

ON THE WAY FROM

CYBERWIT,

BUT IN THE MEANTIME

THERE WILL ALWAYS BE

A WEALTH OF POVERTY 

every asshole dreams of the future

 

NOT EVERYTHING IS

ABOUT YOU

from

Apathy Press Poets

The best, just getting better..

myself, long after i've grown tired of that person

 

the government is your only true enemy

ONLY THE BEST AT

BOTTLECAP PRESS

 

you can start bitching about how things used to be without stopping to remember how goddamn miserable you were

 

HERE

how much broken glass are you willing to crawl over for a fix?

NEW WORK AT

LOTHLORIEN 

there is nothing more pure than the fine art of disappearing

 

WORK @

BRUISER MAG

no one dreams of the ghost they will become

 

COLLECTIONS FROM

CYBERWIT

i will either become my enemies or i will fuck them into submission

 

a merciful fist, an abundance of despair

PIKER PRESS,

WHERE EVERY WORD COUNTS

JOHN SWEET