No longer a writer, washed up, overcast

In this instance an immersion of the writer; who hereby decrees that he is no longer a writer, will benefit the following story as the narrator, or orator if you will, with a flick of the wrist he hovers over the collective consciousness of humanity looking for his own body; much like a cat looking into a fish bowl that has been overrun by sea monkeys, resulting in the capture of his former self, the writer, leaving him dangling in the air, feet kicking and shouting profanities like a meek mouse quarreling over a morsel of food.

The orator, who is no longer one of the literary elite, holds between his pointer finger and thumb the umbilical cord of his former self, now this is quite curious for upon his initial inspection into the collective consciousness it had revealed no such extension protruding from any of the miniature bodies, In fact the only life line that was apparent was their gaping mouths and their empty eyes that reflected each other’s anguish, no cords were seen, no dried out ropes were visible, and no source of connection was readily available, perhaps the mindless chatter that filled the air expanding this bubble was their connection, a slow realization of birth penetrates the orators mind, who no longer spreads words on paper, yet has resorted to conducting grand speeches inside his oversized head, and he remembers when he was ripped from the safe confines of his mother’s womb.

Perhaps the angry slew of words slung at him were of the same emotion, the same disconnect that can cause a person to react in panic, if he were not dangling in mid-air attached to his once vital life force he would be running about his house trying to douse the many panic fires he had set in his disheveled state of fear.

Nevertheless the former wordsmith clutched the cord that felt like the shed skin of an Oberon snake who was finally victorious with his many failed attempts at devouring himself, too much pressure would cause the cord to crumble and leave the small, angry man to drop to his death much like a fallen angel who had been sent back to the earth to signal of the coming apocalypse, with his synapses firing in slow motion the conductor, who no longer controls the crowds, cautions his muscles to be graceful and delicate with their grasp on this sad little mans fate for he would not, could not stomach, the fact that he could be the cause of any abuse or death to such a lonely screamer, a fleeting thought passed through the resigned artists mind that had more than enough space to contain the dreams of the entire collective, this thought was almost rationale and could restore the balance once again to the now uneven flow of the occupants inside the bubble, but if he returned his self, which probably is just a small measure of his own ego, then he feared that he would be stuck on the outside looking in for the rest of eternity,

And even a former writer who has determined that he is washed up, spent, casting wishes into a dried up well, could not sustain that harsh reality of being so entirely disconnected from the world and all of its pains and surely he could not endure the isolation for even one minute, for even a writer who has snapped his pen in half knows deep down that the spirit inside of him, the mad, ravenous voice cannot be contained forever, so the declaration of a writer who publicly states that he is no longer a writer just craves the attention and affirmation that he is one of the greats and he must carry on is just a ruse and a frantic ploy to be remembered after death as he was so cherished when the collective society celebrated the birth of another damned soul, adding to the burden they all carefully construct when the first smack on the ass resounds in the sterile rooms where the families eagerly awaits their next victim.

- John C Sweet

(featured in the poetry forum 10.15.09)

It’s the eleventh hour & we will be waiting & heading home
(shortage in chaos)

Somethings gotta change
This socialist dilemma
  Slinks quietly in the night
Beacon of hope dims
  then
  I hear people
The dead people
  All the people man
they
  moan
they moan
  and choke
  We don’t want you
Even 99 years of war is better
  Than politico defacto
Manifestos
  Even eternal damnation
In the fiery pits of hell is better
  Than this fucking America
That has a cancer sore festering
  Inside our skins
  Dontcha think
Its time to stand up
  And forget about your moments of pleasure
Cause this country is well on its way to
  Impoverishment
Prisonment
  Where butchery used to beseen only on the news
And our missionaries were crying
  Holding the dead babies in their arms
While the natives danced round rings of fire
  Screaming like banshees to their
Universal demi gods
  Over here it means nothing
But the nothing is coming
  My own insecure delusions
Mean nothing at all
  Hopelessness
Change is coming
  When the citizens don’t feel at all
Well I feel something
It aint my time
  The retching in my guts
  going deeper than a party line
If the sheep keep on following
  The edge of the earth will appear
And the way down is forever
  The change is coming down
I can already hear the cries
  My shadow runs away from the
Bleary eyed bleating bleeding in their remorses
  I know something bout remorses
Hear it’s a lot of nothing but the same
  When I wake up I don’t miss it
But the sucking always seem to find me
  Sitting her in my solitary loudness
Then the people of the earth will
  Sing soooooooo long wish you well
Picking pennies from the seas
  Of anonymity
Cause anything will do
  When the coins are adorned by a crown
Please sirs may I have some
  Please sirs may I have some more
Shouting above the crowds
  Watching commerce topple
The quiet skies brood in the wake
  Of a thousand years to this heartache
Watching the meadows burn under the hole
  In the atmosphere
Where I spin and stall on the rings of jubilee
  When democracy used to ask permissions
From the people
  Its now time to say goodbye
To the lies
  Good bye
To the surprise of secret meetings
  Of skulls that speak
Blinking dead eyes
  That forgot about a creed
Where the meek shall inherit the earth
  Bury my bones in the dirt
Stick a stake in my eyes
  Cause my story my heaven
Has lied
  I have sewn it up in my mirror
When I try to see if I am alive
  We cant let them go on killing us the same
Cause my heart is broken again
  And the storm is here again
When will it end
  My vote gets choked
Inside the voice that tempts me
  That leaves me
Drained and empty
  Certain certainty
Is like depravity
  An unwrapped gift
Under the burning bush
  Under the burning bush
Where the eagle dives
  Sizzling in oil
Don’t look at the X’s
  In the eagles eye
Of my generation
  For you shall be blind
Like the rest of us.
  Blind.
Like.
  The.
Rest.
  Of.
Us.
  Skinless in the storm
Shadow thin
  Skinless in the storm
Shadow thin.
Drowning in the spit
  Of our new universal
Language
  tatsächlich hier schlucken wir das Einblenden unseres Nachdenkens

- John C Sweet

(featured in the poetry forum 05.22.09)

(From "The Corner", a new poetry book by John C Sweet.
To order a copy please click here.)

don’t kiss the emperors ring

This is an SOS to the saints

Tho they are all dead

Our world is sick

Stricken with tired aching feet

Mouths that rest slack

Ooh those sorrow’d eyes they bleed

Coloring crimson cheeks

Into a false state of bliss

This is an SOS to the bedraggled

Waiting every month for their dollars

Completely co-dependent upon

A deceitful organization

Ruled by mobsters with dollar guns

And coins fer the eyes

After they suck peoples husks dry

Why o why

Do these shackles of oppression

Hinder them, probing deep inside their memories

Little bells ting their gongs

Humming a tune of farewells

A heavy tune to bring them further down

This is an SOS to the fearful

Who cower in their beds at night

Scanning the midnight skies for fighter jets

& wmo’s

Smothering their faces with the pillows

Like a makeshift gas mask

Waiting for the end to come

Sending this SOS out to the masses

A wakeup call to the order

A new world order

With tattoos just for you

No branding of skins will do

Will not be perpetrated by you

Will not be herded to concentration camps

For special treatments

Will not submit to martial law

Or subtle morse codes through the phones

Or control through tele-screen portals

So this is an SOS for you

To wake and rise

Take to the streets and riot

Take no prisoners

Raise no swords

Load no guns

Sheath the pens and jam the streets

This is an SOS to batter the walls

Heed this call

Pour out the brandy

Melt all the pills

Break the needles and smear the lines

Cause there is no need for chemical confusion

This is our calling and its time to yell

We are sick of it all

Yea its time to say

All there is to say

That has been stifled

By the butt of the rifles

Bled out with rusted bayonettes

Lost in the bunkers of peace

Sucking on the sticks of grease

Torching the meadows slick with oily footprints

Forget about the carbon in the air

Dodge the acid rains

Cut off all yer hair

Tie it up in knots

1000’s of feet of rope

For the greatest tug o war

This nation has ever seen

So yea this is an SOS to the unseen

The sullen ones that just get by

The lonely ones who cry

The broken ones who cannot rise up

The little children

Ooh the little children their clock it ticks the clock

Distorting their enchanted view

So this is an SOS for our little girls and boys

Hiding behind our no-vacancy eyes

They are still spying on us

Waiting for us to remember

Those days that we must sing

Rather than these days where we don’t feel a thing

Yes this is an SOS for everything

We adore

An SOS to open new doors

Slam the old boys in the closets

Hang their gangers on the hangers

& hit the streets

Hit the streets & riot

No longer the quiet

But a raging storm

To ensure our futures

Ohh the children

Let them sing

& not bow to an emperors ring.

- John C Sweet

(featured in the poetry forum 05.11.09)

My work here is through

Snatched the switchblade outta the medicine cabinet

Sliced the air

It fell in ribbons again

Tucked it into my pants,

Sharp biting cold

Just like the mothers of

Conformists, normal everyday fuckers, with macho

Homophobic fears

The knife feels like home

And I wander the streets

Looking into the windows

A sad voyeur w/blade

& I spit

Spit it out

Onto the windows

Slimy mucous spit

Then I trace my name

I was here

There

Everywhere

The white picket fences lead me

Round the block

My head is turning to rott

Peering into a flat

Wifebeaters dirty clenching beer cans

Smashing pretty wives esteem

I bleed like the t.v.

Yet remain silent

My integrity still intact

By a thread

But thoughts of dead

Ghosts

Smashed windows

Pick locked doors

Bedroom covers

And those pillows

Smothering smashing faces

Crafty pretty little statues

Of last breaths

Ooh and the blade

Cold sharp biting in my side

I dance with it open

Spinning pirouettes round the room

Then I lean over the dead body

Slice a ring round the head

Carefully lift the skull cap

To reveal whats left of gods gift

Then I take a poem outta my pocket

Cut up all the little words and scatter them

Inside

Offfering up my lips and breath into the corpse

And I spit spit them out

They sputter and gag alive again

Then I bend down pull out my shoe string

Suture up the skull caps

Paint pretty happy X’s over their eyes

And dance outta the door

Down the street to the next victim

& on my way home I visit them all

Peeking into their windows

Snickering at their vacuous grins

As they try to figure out

These new thoughts

Random wild hectic purposeful thoughts

Then they slowly rise

Saunter over to the bathroom

Open up the medicine cabinet

Pry the child proof lids

Open mouths wide

Spilling all the pretty little pills

Upper downers the throat they go

Soon they will be surrounded by a happy glow

Free of their wasted time

Decrepit bodies fall fall

Down down to the floor

In the last twitches of death

And my poets feet

Pitter patter down the street

The blade is warm, happy content

For this moment well spent

Tossing out credibility

And random perceptions

A nice sigh will do

My work here is through.

- John C Sweet

(featured in the poetry forum 04.14.09)

Dukkha (states will dissolve the wire)

I sutured my eyes tight,
xSpliced my tongue into two
Wired my jaws shut with steel wire,
x& here I sit wondering
What the world looks like now
xAfraid of my silence
Cause I am a wicked
xForked tongue wild man
& here I sit the t.v. is on entertaining me
xPoliticians perched on a burning pyre
Flickering on and off in the markets
xOf Tahiti
xIn Rome
x& censored in Iran
xAbsorbed by millions of eyes & ears
Cutting to a scene, a commercial on repeat,
Speaking its Vietnamese with govr’t control
x& on the corner the people tip their paper-hats
xTo the monk on fire
xHis ashes frozen in prayer
xSullen and tragic
He broke all the rules and the destroyed the path
xHe is speeding out of control
xHis soul will now wander
xCursing the jewels
xSlipping in & outside the ball of 8
xThe ball of 8
For they have abandoned him
xHis Suicidal refuge
xHis abhorrence of hate
xCries in defeat
xBurning in the steet
& hear I sit in my own refusals
xBlinding my easy eyes
xSilencing my soulful cries
xListening to the t.v. static
xAbsorbing the Technicolor
Control
xI can smell the politician burn
xI can hear the cries of the monk
Somewhere round midnight the street machines will rise
xSucking up the remains of the politician
xDisposing him to the landfills of modernism
Brushing aside the ashes of the monk
Preserving them in reverence, leaving them in the gutter
For his sad sangha brothers
xWho will rise up in the morning
xDressed in yellow
xSlowing walking in their procession
xCrying for their friend & his demonic possession
& hear I sit wanting to cry
xJaws clenched with pressure
xEyes sutured in black
xTongue hanging slack
Wailing from the inside,
xBreaking my skin apart,
xThen I fall to pieces
This moment of surrender
xShatters the windows
xBlows out the doors
xCreating a big black hole
Echoing round this weather’d globe
xCalling up a windstorm
xHurling a hurricane of words
x& they come crashing down
xOn every shore
Leaving my reflection on the waters
xNow the world cannot sit idly by
xNot noticing me
xFor they all are knocked down
xTo their knees
xWith the force of my sorrowful sound
& hear I sit
xScattered all over the world
xFlickering on and off with the sunshine
xThat fills this space
Reverberating with a Technicolor
xBoom opening the door
xTo space
Where I wander from place to space
xSilent and blind
xScared and dismissed
xPlease make a wish
xOffer me yer goodbye
x& cry & cry for the world
The world where you no longer play free
xThe world where your dukkha states
Will dissolve when you become aware &
xWhen you decide to notice me in the skies
Notice me in the skies
xThe first precept in the story
Rising with the sunshine & fairy tales
xOf yesterday’s when
Of yesterday’s when…

- John C Sweet

(featured in the poetry forum 04.04.09)

Sugar’d street junkie ghost makers

Sugar don’t call me sugar, ‘cause I will rott yer tongue, drill tiny little holes in yer teeth.

& run away naked down tha street shouting for a fix.

Filling up tha holes in my arms with tha mess you left behind,
my fingers will stick in tha glue, spat from yer worthless gums.

Fingering tha flesh, puss oozes, I am suddenly scared feeling how empty I am

inside. Junkie ghost eyes cry, ladadadadada day wasting away in the oil stain’d roads

Waxy lights drop their goo searing my eyes that stare at the man with half a face
hanging from the pole, whispering jonny jonny its time to go.

So baby don’t call me sugar, melting in that street licking me with yer putrid tongue
trying to clean me from tha resin of the gun plunged into tha veins, tha rosebeat of sap

Pools in its fluid hue, blocking tha flow of junk and I withdraw from tha street
following tha yellow lines to tha hollow of my heart, jumping round

Holy hound hungry & tha pusher laughs under tha awning, his boy body
with haunches of steel, shimmer shimmer stealing all tha trace of light, tha half faced man

Reaches out his hand, whispering what yer seeing is tha result of patchwork blends,
coke n valium racing through yer cage. So sugar don’t try to steal my post traumatic dreams.

She rotts at tha seams, spilling her effects all over the place all she does is cry,
sucking me dry my husk only knows how to wander anyone can make him for a ghost.

If you follow him you will find yer steady connection, he only disappears after fixing up
filling tha husk with air he sits next to me in his ghost form, smiling & I feel sick.

Like someone wets their fingers snuffing out my wick my tears harden in their waxy spills,
remaining where they are, so sugar go get tha pennies in tha jar & lets suck on tha copper,

Shocking tha mercury teeth sending its waves to our groins, we climax
spurting our essence all over tha room rolling sliding laughing, then it comes down

& out in yellow’d throat gases, silencing tha air, so its time to kiss my mouth kisses
her rotten lips all over her face, stealing my sugar back drooling it into the spoon,

heating it all up all over again.

& winter will come stealing our memories, she still loves to kiss me
until we come again drowning while tha half faced man laughs kicking the can,

& we watch out tha thousand of windows & the ghost walks away,
cool & luminous, phone ringing junkies singing for some sugar, yea its an easy score

- John C Sweet

(featured in the poetry forum 03.15.09)

Flicker Phobia

Flicker phobia droops the lids, lashes dashing onto
Rosed cheek, the mania underneath sugar highs

Rests its weary head, the click click of the switch
Results in a POP and a hint of sulfur & darkness

Envelops the one room with a brick view like slowly
Ebbing streams headed for the great falls, there is no barrel

Just a free fall to the smooth rocks below the surface, where
Bubbles and foam swirl mixing with the chemical haze that surrenders

To Obsessive, repetitive behaviors feasting upon the October moon,
Revelers in full riot gear race to the harvest, collecting little stories &

Wretched dreams with little hands that wave, faces with bulbous eyes ready
For germination are wishing for a rebirth and the grace of springtime, planted too

Early the frost comes from wicked mouths with blackened tongues,
The little hands sever the tongues with gay blades that whistle

Spraying spittle across the freshly painted canvas, smearing the colors
Into transparency revealing hidden codes crafted with invisible ink,

Little hands that wave bleed with the cuts from poems papers tossed
Into the fireplace to sizzle and snap to unspoken rhythms, to the chimneys

The ashes rise free floating to the neighbors houses where the breeze carries
Them through open windows, falling to rest upon the eyes of the unaware

Dreamers, penetrating their conscious with desires unheard of in proper circles,
Ideas of revolution gone mad, images of torn apart bodies and brains that exist

Alone, turning their restful night into one full of terror and fright, while in the midst
Of the poetic throes their bodies bolt upright and race to the light switch on the wall,

There they stand flicking the light on and off, trying to convince themselves that they are
Awake, shaking and cold the light goes Pop and a hint of sulfur fills their nose,

For to discern reality and dreamstate one must not always be alone, and in the dark
The two confuse the mind and lets loose imagination and fears, neurons and synapses fire

Battling the ego, freeing the id and suddenly awareness comes like the thunder clap
In the orange skies, rapping knuckles outside the windows crack the glass, nails screech

Just enough to grind teeth, and lips press against the panes, smearing kisses up and down,
Millions of little hands wave in the distance beckoning, and they wave and wave until

The proper little people break down letting curiosity overtake their common sense,
Soon the little room with the brick view is crowded and hot, and the poet sits on his bed

Raising his head opening one eye, takes a surmise and lies down, pulls the covers over his head
Retreating back into manias lair, for that familiar state is far better than trying to teach

Those proper pretty little people about insanities clever ways, breathing a sigh of goodbyes

He dies, and they all fade away returning to their picket fences and newspapers chalking it all
Up to one too many scary movies before they retired, overlooking the one line obituary that read

He is dead now go back to sleep.

- John C Sweet

(added 03.15.09)

Evolution forgot the Gun, sucked up the Sun

Lay yer head in my lap, let the world fall to the floor
Bite the zipper and root around, use your mouth
XXXInstead of growing lies, count my pulse the pulse the pulse the pulse
While yer in there breathe yer last breath, cause I called the angel today
XXXSee this is my world and I have already invited them all
Lugging their totem bodies, dragging their golden feet, rustling against the walls
XXXWith their velvet skins, when they arrive they will strip you down
Use their mouths and tongues to wipe you clean
XXXCause yer too dirty to taste the communal offering
XXXFrom alabaster relics bloodstained with names, chisled with care
My nails finger yer hair, twisting a noose, smelling yer juices
XXXRipe n warm from lack of baptisms, & I salivate getting high
Go get the pills, call the martyr, nail it into place on the mantel
XXXHangin yer pretty hair noose round its neck, you dangle
Pressed up naked to thousands of skins free of souls blown to shreds
XXXCrying over and over again we are going to live forever
Virgins virgins were foretold, hard cocks shrivel in the cold air of this damned
XXXDead cave, this offering has no flower, wide gaping whole whored -angels
Despise you cause they are no longer blind to yer lies, when you laid yer head in my lap
XXXYer last breathe was saved, I opened up yer memories and cast them onto the bed
Throwing aside the bag laying empty and sad, I carried yer bag happily feeding off yer
XXXStories, promising me yer morning glory, spring never came and I lit a candle
Lining up all yer fears and demons building a pretty little hell just for you, so come here
XXX& rest yer pretty little head in my lap, bite the zipper and root around,
Feel the pulse the pulse the pulse, close yer eyes unless you like little bombs kissing yer face
XXXLick em up so we can send em to God, offering you up to the martyr on the mantle,
Cause they were deceived and now cry holding their cocks turning blue, too dirty for the communal
XXXOffering washing you clean with the eruptions from the pulse the pulse the pulse
Go get the pills cause we gonna crucify A
XXXPretty face in our little hell where evolution forgot the gun and sucked up the sun
XXXForgot the gun and sucked up the sun
XXXForgot the gun and sucked up the sun
XXXForgot the gun and sucked up the sun.

- John C Sweet

(added 03.15.09)