one death at a time
i have
onion breath
and
a scar
that says
`wake the dead`.
no more
street vending
hot dogs,
or parkour`ing
around the world
in search of laughter,
in search of love,
when i see my world
diminishing
every hour,
one death at a time.
tell me
how do i tell
my unborn child
that i`m not ready
to die
yet?
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an Observation
i wish
i could tell you
that everything
is going to be
alright, babe,
he said
through an inhale
of
vigilant smoke
we were sitting
on a furloughed
porch stoop
on a thursday morning
dragging
on cigarettes, watching
our shallow graves
wade
in timeless
waters
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regret&sometimes loathing
he wasn`t much
for my emotions, `cause
he`d spew insults like
`your poetry
is a prison
with your verses
on death row`
and
`your insecurities
are like
temporary flowers
wilting
in white padded rooms
with black curtains
and no windows`
personally, i think
he just missed
partying with strippers
named barbie
and quoting bukowski
to his cat
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11 a.m.
he said
he awoke
with phlegm
in his throat
and
a dirty brunette
fucking with
the sid vicious`ness
of his mind
so, he said
he kicked her
off his bed
and she rolled under
and disappeared
like those non`nancy`s
his liver picks up
outside the hollywood liquor
at 11 a.m.
the same liver
that suffers daily
from binge psychosis
and
bullshit poetry
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Posted: March 17, 2020 in Uncategorized
the kingdom, denied
in these sepia-toned rooms of
memory i relive
25 years of drowning
in the season of ascension
we eat only dust
and i have these pictures and i
have these poems and i am
not sorry for being thin
enough to fade from view
i have no use for your
anger and none for your pain
we were there at the table
when the bullet
caught christ in the throat
i was fucking your
sister on the afternoon my
grandfather took his
own life and
listen –
confession isn’t art
the starving know enough
to view your god as nothing
more than so much meat
all magic is contained w/in
the moment of revelation
and then all that’s
left is dust
a long way from home, and bleeding
everything revealed,
but not until we’re all dead,
and this is just the way it works
i love you
but it’s not enough
i hate my life,
and how ordinary is that?
was there ever anything to do, really,
but fuck and get high?
listen
the trick is to forget the past and
close your eyes against the future
the trick is to never stop moving
we kill what we fear,
we become what we hate and
maybe this finally explains my father
maybe a mouthful of broken glass
is all any of us really need
nothing ever feels as good as
the pain
we can share with others
*read John Sweet`s bio here
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Posted: March 17, 2020 in Uncategorized
Hangnail
i WILL write you
this poem even if it takes
whiskey, leonard cohen &
biting your fucking fingernails
to finish it!
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misses Saturday night
she closed the gap
on their
relationship
at the bottom of a bourbon glass
with a 6 pack of
blue ribbon Pabst
and
a toothbrush
once belonging
to johnny cash
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