| John Sweet, born in 1968, believer in writing as catharsis, opposed to all organized religion and all formal schools of poetry. Homeowner, neurotic, manic depressive, widely published on paper and computer screens around the world. Recent collections include "Famine" and "Human Cathedrals". Mild-mannered civil servant by day, high-strung insomniac by night, currently in debt and actively seeking donations. Knows where to find you, if necessary, so don't say you weren't warned. http://www.myspace.com/bleedinghorsedenied http://bleedinghorse.blogspot.com/ |
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| lament, end of summer, still dreaming of escape fifteen years in this desert and i am fifteen years older i have mastered the art of walking slowly down empty hallways i have learned the sound of my father being kept alive by machines have learned the sound of letting go and on these fading august afternoons even the burning children are beautiful beneath pale yellow skies their bikes lay at awkward angles on the empty streets and wait for salvation their mothers cry or their mothers disappear or they call without warning and ask me to come over tell me love is a lie tell me there are worse things than rape and this is not said in anger but is sung like a lullaby the houses are not silent but despairing these things we do behind closed doors are always remembered with regret |
| John Sweet |
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