John Sweet, "More Words in Short Choppy Lines" + Photography

broken hand w/ mirror

in this world where

almost everything is beyond

your control and your

choices are limited to false

god, slave, impotent king

vote or don’t vote

shoot or don’t shoot and

                      either way

the starving continue to starve

grow old

then

die

eat handfuls of dust

send postcards back to

your loved ones, to

your enemies

let them see you

                finally

for the empty threat you

                   always were

 

 the refusal

shoot the doctor in the

back as he walks away then

tell him he’s a coward while he

dies at your feet

it’s an addiction,

like humor

it’s a punchline

you capture the soldier, a

boy of fifteen or sixteen, and

then you torture that fucker

until he’s on the floor in a

pool of his own shit and blood

this is how wars are won

make your children

understand this

tell them how much you hated

your own father,

how much he hated you

show them the scars

explain how they can only

grow up to

repeat your mistakes

 blue skied surrender

you near an ocean

          not my own

and what we have between us

                                 is silence

choices are made

absences explained

you tell me not to tell you there was

never any hope

but what does it matter?

i have these pictures

and my faith in sunlight

the train tracks here

echo the curve of the river

men with the heads of carrion birds,

with fangs and claws,

live in the trailers up in the hills

money is power and

               power is god

death is death, but there are

better and worse ways

to approach it

i choose running away

choose willful blindness

have only ever been brave

when there was nothing

valuable at stake

pythagorus, dismantled

and grey skies and

almost rain

no need to worry

no pain no

fear when the pills

take hold

woke up alone on

the living room floor

feel asleep with no

need for god

thought i had enough

money,

but the children

         were gone

thought i had enough

food, but my hands

just kept bleeding

the bottle was empty

fought through the

past to reach this

moment and then found

out there was no

way back

a man hung of his

own free will

can never be a nation

darkness offers

no safety

boil up whatever

splintered bones

you can find and let

this last meal we

share be a feast

postcard to california

and you and i like

forgotten kings cutting wires,

like ghosts in empty fields

you and i staring

blindly into the sun

drowning, but slowly,

five years and then ten,

blood turned to amber,

empires to dust and

then you and i like

open flames

you and i like ashes

all of the years we will

spend growing cold

 splendour

grow up fearing

men w/ answers

grow up fearing

growing old

reach the age at

which you are

no longer any use to

                     anyone

sit beneath the

dull yellow heat of

august skies and

consider suicide

consider sleep

the fear of dreams

of waking up

one day closer to

                 winter

of not

waking up at all

 the obvious

you, still w/ the

taste of poison coating

your mouth

still w/ the need to write

these meaningless goddamn poems

about metaphorical deserts

so what if you’re lost or

if you’re never found?

so what if the middle is

worse than the end?

we’ll all be dead and

forgotten soon enough

 into view

not blindness

but the sky gone dark

porch lights

bitter wind

in any story, you

are only the sound of

dead leaves down

sleeping streets

in any dream, i am

only the moment

of despair

you wake up

sweating and see with

absolute clarity how

all of our kingdoms

will fall

 

 ex

just kill yrself a little,

maybe, just to see how it

feels, just to be able to still

step back out of that room

into pale april sunlight

just to have something to

talk about when your

lover starts to turn away

untitled, grey on grey

and you can feed your children

the poison or you can wait

for someone else to do it for you

and, beyond this, you

have no choices

beyond this,

your life is good