had god but it
wasn’t enough

had drugs which
came closer

got tired of growing
up and then got
tired of growing old

sang songs that refused to
bleed and i cut myself on
the edges of awkward silences and
no matter which way i turned the
forest always opened up into
the desert

no matter how fast i run
the ghost of ernst is always
there with his knife
to my throat

says he’s sick of the war
says he’s bored with america

says he can never find
anything on the radio

keeps spinning the dial hoping
for the voice of god
but all he gets is static and when i
ask him what the point is of
being a radical when it’s
old age that finally kills you
the fucker just smiles

just points at my face and
pulls the trigger of
some imaginary gun

About the Author

John Sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. His latest collections include APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press) and the limited edition chapbooks HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A BASTARD CHILD IN THE KINGDOM OF NIL (2018 Analog Submission Press). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.