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?

 

 


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

 


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   

 

 


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

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?

 

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

 

1 Poem – Devlin De La Chapa

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!

 


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