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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY - 02/2004
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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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© 2004-2012 Underground Voices |
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