UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 02/2004

JOHN SWEET

poem left untitled in an anonymous room

lennon's bloodstained glasses
set against a grey december sky

the desert
which is anywhere you
call home

myself at 35
with nothing left to give

a job that i hate
and a house i never wanted
and the shadow it casts
on the one next door

a ghostwhite sun scratched into
a dirty yellow sky

all of the people i've known
who no longer talk to me
and all of their reasons

all of their pain

the sounds we make
while drowning


a darker room

not the storm
but the waiting

pale yellow sunlight
falling from a dirty silver sky
and the shadows of branches

the idea of starvation
which should never be confused
with the reality of it

the way you crawl either
towards or away from whoever
says they love you

no words
only actions

broken glass and
the way it tastes being
forced down your throat

the way your children
see everything

your daughter
pulling away from your touch

the marks on her back

what they finally mean



crawl (2)

the simplicity of the act

your children dead and
your boyfriend's hand
between your legs

the way his words
taste like poison

the way you beg for more

always some addiction
needing to be fed


john sweet, 35 and counting, angry, bitter, etc etc, hiding in a pissant town in upstate
new york, a believer in very little. a follower of the writings of j. pollock and of the
words of h. frayne. too much education, and still a shit job. recent publications include
the chapbook Enemy (www.pinkanarchkittypress.com), the full length collection Human
Cathedrals (www.ravennapress.com) and the electronic chapbook Silence in the House of
Truths (www.tmpoetry.com).







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