waiting for conviction

deal in sorrow,
like all great gods

pound on unyielding doors
with broken fists

the moment is
alive with possibility until
it passes, and then all
it is is wasted

the truth is barren trees
beneath a bright blue sky

stand in the place where you
last saw your
daughter alive, and sing

create art from the
filth of your ancestors

believe yourself to be
hopeful, despite the
overwhelming testimony
of those who know you



against the sun

and we are not poets
we are dogs

we are fools and whores and
the words that spill from
our lips taste like shit

they have no meaning

no power and
if no one ever hears them
will it really matter?

look in the mirror
for an answer

run your hands down
your lover's body

fill your mouth with ashes

this is only the present and
the future holds no power

the past is a weight i will
nail to your shoulders

the minister's daughter is
lying naked in the field
and the field is on fire

the factories give birth
to hungry machines

the machines run on
human blood

you will love your
children but it won't be
enough


john sweet, b. 1968, single father of 2, opposed to all schools of poetry, founder of at least 13 major religions (including whichever one you belong to). collections include ASH WILDERNESS and HUMAN CATHEDRALS. a believer in writing as catharsis. will only vote for those not seeking to get elected.