one death at a time


i have

onion breath


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   


every hour,

one death at a time.

tell me  

how do i tell

my unborn child

that i`m not ready

to die





an Observation


i wish

i could tell you

that everything

is going to be

alright, babe,

he said

through an inhale


vigilant smoke


we were sitting

on a furloughed

porch stoop

on a thursday morning


on cigarettes, watching

our shallow graves


in timeless



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`




`your insecurities

are like

temporary flowers    


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   



11 a.m.


he said

he awoke

with phlegm

in his throat


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


bullshit poetry

2 Poems – John Sweet

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?




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


1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa

Posted: March 17, 2020 in Uncategorized



i WILL write you

this poem     even if it takes

whiskey, leonard cohen &

biting your fucking fingernails

to finish it!


misses Saturday night


she closed the        gap

on their



at the bottom of a bourbon glass     

with a 6 pack of

blue ribbon Pabst


a toothbrush

once belonging

to johnny cash