(all that’s left now, from before)

and we are not content with our empty lives,
with our shallow deaths, and
so we invent wars

we draw sketches of invisible gods,
but with the wrong hand and
with our eyes closed

we drown

secret poem of grace & beauty #1

dig your own grave,
then,
here at the end of august
and cover yourself w/ birdsong

w/ the faded plastic toys left in
              abandoned back yards

remember that the
disease is yours to give

kiss the sick and the
                   crippled

tell them you love them

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

and we drown

all those afternoons drunk,
stoned, asleep and
burning in the early summer sun until
everyone has vanished,
wife,
lover,
children,
but at least there’s beer
in the fridge

at least tony’s stopping by on
tuesday with more weed,
and who ever really plans
on growing old?

who really lives their life
free from all illusion?

build yourself whatever god
you want, and i’ll show you how
easily it can be torn back
down to nothing

the smaller events of our numbered days

can count all of the people he
likes on the fingers of one hand,
the other a fist or maybe holding a gun and
by the end of november
the idea of sunlight has been forgotten

by december
the children have all disappeared

(i once believed i’d never bleed)

and all gods lose the plot at some point,
and all kings are just inevitable assassinations,
and are you good with this?

fuck yes

there’s no way to be remembered
without making history,
or at least that’s the shit they keep
peddling in school, and
everyone
everywhere
always waiting for an apology,
but i think it’s time to
move past that noise

the truth can only
ever be the truth, right? and
it’s not mean and
it’s not ugly it’s
just the truth

the sound of a void,
amplified and distorted

the weight of a future
none of us will live to see

you get as close
as you possibly can, and
then you find out you’re dead

John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).

You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.