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