Poetry by John Sweet

Gerry Dincher CC





[someone fetch a priest]


end of a season maybe,
maybe the end of a year, but
still trapped deep inside
the age of disease

still looking for the map that will
move us past the borders
of the kingdom of nil

and if you believe in god
then you understand the need
for punishment

if you accept the idea of heaven
then you probably still need to
get a clearer view of hell

you need to be covered in blood,
in spit, in cum, just like
iggy back in ‘72

like j christ on
his farewell tour

give a man a hammer and he
will nail you to your future,
am i right?

create an army
and a war will find you

this is both science and history,
so you’ll probably want
to take notes

you’ll probably want to
stay for the movie

graphic sex and dolby sound and
with the 3D glasses its like
you might almost matter

and when the guy at the front of
the theater stands up and
opens fire,
you’ll wish you’d found that map

you’ll wish you’d voted for
someone who
actually gives a shit

you’ll be dead before
the credits roll






a cubist sonnet for the last days of empire


dog is shot at the
far end of the street
in the last days of summer

blue sky or silver and
chromium sun and the dog is
shot and the sound of laughter

the body of the dog and
of the old man

the mother pushing the
baby but not the baby

not the dog

and the trigger is pulled and
the silence is
what you’d expect

faint hum of traffic

dog barking in the distance
but the
trigger has been pulled

the dog has been shot

body of the mother lying at
an awkward angle at
the far end of the street

the baby crying

the old man

feels as if something
terrible
is about to happen

​



or this fear that we live without meaning


counting down the days to
darby’s death, to ian’s, to jeffrey
lee’s, and are you a believer in the future?

are you here just to fuck the
pretty girls and laughing boys, the
false kings, the junkie doctors?

feels good sticking the needle in,
sure,
but then the votes are counted

the game is called

curtains go up in flames, house fills
with smoke, and maybe one or
two kids get left behind

what am i supposed to do, cry?

look

not every mouthful of gasoline
needs to be swallowed

not every god is going to
give you a blowjob
worth writing home about

the sooner you accept this shit as
the truth, the sooner we can
start burying the dead




John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism. His poetry collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU (2024 Apathy Press Poets).


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