Poetry

November 15, 2009      

Two Poems by John Sweet

Rorschach Blood

Five fingers one to three thru five

Dipping into the darkness

It hangs on the pads, filling my prints

Palmreader couldn’t predict such happenings

This paper smudged with surrounding light

Rorschach bloods and my silence speaks too loud

This mortar and bone office with frames &

Cush leather chains onto my belt

Tighter n tighter I press into the cushion

Welting my waistline

Intent on those fingers

Dilating pupils

Pinpoints of refraction from spectacles

Perked on hook nose

A perfect disguise for acceptance

While looking the way to the soul

Downward into the spiral he would ride

Yet his own vacuous psychotic mind

Feigns that of superior sanity

Keeping him safe

Sameness blames slippery one liners

Hanging in the silence of my thought cloud

Slowly turning grey with the dark

Seeping through pores into my blood spores

Their uncharted ride into madness

Leaves their stains where the last of sanity

Remains

Uncharted and vast hiding in the grimy clasp

Of clogged neurons tired from years

Of pollution

Their weak electrical pulses mimic

My slow movements

And apathetic attitudes towards

Rorschach dreams

Pathetic means of analytical charts

And graphs

You are here they say

While I still am lost in the grey thought cloud

Waiting for the darkness to color

Me into the hue of the slavery that has enveloped

My very nature of humanness

5 fingers one to three thru five

Waving high

Stone still

Waiting patiently for my scripts

Undecipherable to an untrained eye

Familiar to my hungry heart

Failure to cry may be the result

Of paranoia and dementia

Welcoming me back home

So with one finger I touch my eyelids

Smearing them black

Rubbing a little too hard

Till stars and sunrises of yesterday

Break way for one

Little tear

Tremor the lip

Then comes the understanding

Between the patient and the nose

And a solemn one handed goodbye

Clenching the other fist

With next month’s fix.

oscillate infinities 8

Dragging on a fag

Timeclock on the bed

Risen earlier than yesterday

Enjoying the sound

And smoke circles my tousled hair

The morning whispers

That’s the time that’s the time

Running round in mine

Mine colors in the morning

When ya rise

Letting go falling back on the bed

Softness underhead

Last night I had thick sunglasses

And split vision

Like a tv screen

Me talking with me

And me talking with her

She laughed like a pig

Yea she did

I looked with my eyes

They were hid

Up n down

Yea I see her

Three buttons down

Cleft of breast

Yea I love the best

Freedom in the west

Smoking in the bed

Yea im thinking

Of the time

N its early

Admiring my wristwatch whose eager

Eager for me to don my man clothes

And strap him on

I yanked the arm on the 78

Screeches scratching a beat

Calling out an invitation to hit the street

And sit

Sit on the wall

Listening to the cat calls

And the ambulances

Someone says hey asshole

And I smile

And greet back fuck you

Yea that’s all

Yanking the arm on the 78

Burning my poetic groove deep in the plastic

Dreams of successful dead men

Who whisper to me in the morning

Ooh god ooh god

Mine eyes are still pixled and dilated

And I trip on the toe tag

That wasn’t there last night

Ooh what a fright

When the cracks on the walls appeared

With my eyes that wouldn’t open

Those leaden arms

And the doctor still wanted to do some tests

& I fantasized about how she looked

Skinny she was

Bulimic or anorexic skinny

Sick or wanton

With lips thicker and holes fer eyes

Colored so holy heroins so in love

With her skeletal breasts

That lead images of need

Nipples that bleed in the sink

Hastily washed away

Gripped on the brink of death

She stinks of stale breath

And cat walks all over my night

Where I smoked and smoked

Listening to the alarm

So eagar to arm my skin

With its salty grins

And dead batteries

Echoing inside my sleeping heart

Pixilated eyes

Blur the tag

Surprised I cant read

So hey It cant be me

In the morning greeting the

Colors that oscillate

With infinities number 8’s

About the author:

I reside in Dallas, Ga. Recently published with InnerCirclePublishing latest book titled: Evolution: beingjohnsweet, works appeared in Haggard & Halloo and Poetry Warrior Magazine. Self published 8 other chap book style poetry books under the pen name of beingjohnsweet. Graduate of Central Michigan University BA, focus on creative arts. Father of 3 and husband to a beautiful princess.

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