"cuz yr so sick & pretty," "every worthless day in the season of rain," and "the other you in love with this person i never was"

cuz yr so sick & pretty

good times, dead man
grow up singing the
song of your grandfather’s suicide
grow old sleeping with the
wives of strangers,
but there are worse things,
look at your father
consider the bones of
your youngest child
not much meat there,
so you gotta make it last
gotta swallow those
ashes and call it good
people starving everywhere,
like it’s the easiest
goddamn thing in the world



every worthless day in the season of rain

so you and i, we talk about
the deaths of minor gods
talk about eliot, about poetry, about
how it can only ever be a curtain,
something used to cover or reveal the truth of the sun,
and then the sun itself, yellow or dull silver
or luminous white
grey shadows on dead grass
the spaces between houses,
                 between cities,
                 between lovers
you and i on either side
the exile of hope
in the age of ignorance
walls and windows and distance and fear, and
what will we do when there’s nothing left
to eat but the past?
how much blood will it take
to quench your thirst?
it’s not a question asked
out of idle curiosity



the other you in love with this person i never was

and then tired of these drugs that
do nothing and then tired of the pain and
the mathematics of your father’s death are
both simple and infinite
the heart betrays the body
and then the body is consumed and
you outlive him, sure,
but then what?
marriage, children, failures of your own, and
of course i believe in gorky and of
course i believe in cobain
i dig up towards the sun or else
down to the bones of anonymous victims
the age of knotted rope has arrived
the shadows of birds across
cracked and pitted parking lots, up the
rusted walls of abandoned factories and
i have grown up, i think, and
i have grown old
i have learned
the fine art of turning away
you will always be the
last person i see



John Sweet

John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate New York. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in poetry as a reason for getting up in the morning.  He has been publishing in the small press for 30 years.  His most recent collection is There's Only One Way This Is Going to End (Cyberwit, 2023).


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Thursday, April 4, 2024 - 21:03