like sunlight, like chrome
mouths always hungry, always
open and dirty hands shoveling
in shit, got to keep the
fuckers alive if you want to
keep selling them whatever it
is that’s made you rich, got
to bleed the fuckers just so much,
just so far, got to give them a
line of credit then take it away
then give it back again, those
fat little grabbing hands, those
brittle cancerous bones, got
to invent disease to invent the
cure, got to film the sexiest
girls on their hands & knees,
got to keep them in line, keep
them addicted, keep them
skinny or fat and always
hungry, mouths always open,
holes where the shit goes in
and where the shit comes out
and when you have finally
bought it all, when you have
finally bought everything
that will ever make you happy,
then there is nothing to do
but start counting backwards
to your death
butcher
In the telling,
nothing is made clear
Sunlight, yes, but the lawns
still damp from the rain, the trees
shimmering. Halos around the
heads of the youngest children.
Voice of a man, slightly bored,
uncomfortable in the heat, says into
the face of the void The killer was
not found among the dead.
Dog barks somewhere out of sight
and you notice that all of
the windows have been broken.
You notice that the buzzing of
flies is unnaturally loud.
Smell of despair is
overwhelming.
western world
and you will hate everyone who has
more than you, and you will look
down upon anyone with less
and you will be adamant
and you will be outraged
you will be frightened
of course
you will be crucified
nothing more or
less than what you deserve
the brilliance of moving targets
thin skin of heat at the end
of august
sky no longer solid
man moves through the empty spaces
of broken marriage, of
distant children, of subtle depression
pills don’t work
and so he takes more
feels the weight of sunlight
on chrome
tastes dust in his lover’s kisses
has this house that
refuses to become a home
joy
find a woman whose skin tastes of
rust and call her your own
this is the way
these are the hands
press near the shoulderblades where
wings have failed to grow and
blame society, blame the modern age,
cable tv, internet porn
kiss her breasts lightly
run your tongue down her belly
let the priests dig
their own fucking graves
hollow star
caught there on a deserted street in
a dying town, beneath the awning of an
abandoned store, rain without end and
no cars in any direction and in the
moment of prayer there is only the memory
of sunlight on chrome
there is only waiting
days spent touching the grey
flesh of christ
hours spent burning up
in the fever of addiction
all of the humor found in the pain of others,
and the child has hands until the
soldiers arrive
and then he has nothing
smile when you
tell him there are worse things
when you tell him about
your leaking gas tank about
your flooded basement or
your pregnant teenage daughter
offer him a drink
ask him why he’s crying on
such a perfect summer afternoon
John Sweet, born 1968, is married, father of two, and opposed to all that is evil. He has been living in the vast wasteland that is upstate New York for the majority of his life; is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the idea that true democracy is a myth. A full length collection of his work, Human Cathedrals, is available from Ravenna Press.
