
walk away/like a fool
someone telling you it’s
almost too late your entire life,
and then it is, and is this
comedy or is it
tragedy?
do you outlive your children or
bury them all one at a time?
and maybe i’m part of
this particular picture
maybe the sunlight is
never as pure as we remember
you’re smiling at the edge of
a field of flowers, but
there are always shadows
spilling across your face
there are always angry
voices reach in from
other rooms
blame to be assigned and
refused and
some of us grow up while
others just grow old
some of us grow wings
none of us escape
what you feel about this
never really makes
any difference in the end
in mercy blind
here in this bluegrey room and
suffocating beneath the idea of failure
of mine
of yours
of everyone’s
and here beneath this twilight sky
in the kingdom of oblivion
age of lies and age of truth
of pregnant women butchered by soldiers
of children sold into slavery
of endless fucking massacre and
in the end
all we are is proof of the futility
of man-made gods
of untrue democracies
of all power coming from
weapons or wealth and maybe
we are even hope
maybe we can still learn to dance on
the graves of tyrants and
false idols with bloodthirsty joy
maybe we are
not quite lost
heretic
collision isn’t fatal but
the blood offers possibilities
tv on the wrong channel and
the president speaks of raping babies
shouts about the importance of wealth,
the need for vengeance,
the illusion of victory and
everything spoken through a
mouthful of sawdust and dogshit and
then the man with the gun laughs
says there’s no such thing
as something new
says this, and then he takes
his own life and, in a world without
safety, there can only be promises
kept or promises broken
can only be darker shades of
grey and red
the two of us alone in a
stranger’s room and
waiting for the first light of day
with broken wings, with bruised hearts
& the future is prisons, you see,
and the future is loss
let go of yr house, of yr
children, but hang onto the hatred
that defines you
give up christ
give up all those pretty songs
your mother used to sing
close in on holiness
like a soldier taking aim
one from the valley of ashes
motherfucking high in the bathroom,
nosebleed spraying all over
the wall, the mirror, dripping into the sink
and julie laughing about the
broken glass
laughing about the
beginning and the end
all of the shit in between
gods & priests & kings and the trails of
corpses they always leave behind
a wasted mouthful
nothing to lead and nowhere to
go and no one
cares if you die anyway
no one cares if you
live in sight of the land
we are all kingdoms, right?
we all go to sleep
we all burn
and don’t apologize, but don’t
expect any applause, either
the best gifts
remain unspoken
the best years are always
referred to in the past tense
do you see how that’s funny?
do you understand the
alchemy
of corpse into god?
talk to cobain about
his cure for addiction
ask if he sees the irony in
the voice of a generation
being a suicide
once you’ve got that
sense of humour, there’s really
nothing else you need
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications) and A DEAD MAN, EITHER WAY (2020 Kung Fu Treachery Press).
You can find more of John’s work here on Ink Pantry.