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/
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/
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
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
