John Sweet Archives | Rebelle Society

Just Waiting to Be Something Else. {poetry}

I spent a lot of time back then wandering blind through fields of ghosts. Spent a lot of time dead and just waiting to be something else.

poetry

The Door Is Maybe Locked. {poetry}

The door is maybe locked and he is eight. She is waking him up in a different room in the same house, is saying Come to bed, I’m lonely.

poetry

Because: Mother Doesn’t Talk About the Past. {poetry}

My mother crying at the sound of laughter, at the sound of someone trying to open the back door, and I have learned not to ask.

poetry

It Was Not the Future We Were Running Toward. {poetry}

Our pasts refused to reconcile with any version of the future, and this room and these bloodstains and whatever news of your lover.

poetry

All Your Dreams End to End Won’t Make a Life. {poetry}

All attempts at truth are doomed to failure here... And the age of saints is necessary, yes, but what of the saints themselves?

poetry

Where Am I When She Calls? {poetry}

Where am I when my mother finds my father on the kitchen floor? Why does this girl with her face painted white want me to kiss her clean?

poetry

All Moments Without End. {poetry}

We’re building unsafe houses from the bones of ghosts of missing children. You dig and you dig, but all you find is earth.

poetry

Tesseract: Build the House Just to Burn It Down. {poetry}

Nothing to do, you know? Hemingway as dead as Bukowski andwho the fuck cares? Got to get on withthe simple act of living got to build the house just to burn it down newborn baby on the second floor,mother in the passenger seatas the car pulls away,but this is the sort of shit that is always ...