cold in the shadows of empty warehouses,
in the indirect blur of this burnt-out november sunlight,
and i couldn’t breathe,
could only smell gasoline & approaching snow
and what i kept hearing in the back of my mind was lou reed,
was the velvet underground, oh! sweet nuthin’,
the chorus going on and on,
the guitar,
and it was like church bells & stained glass,
it was like summer skies from when we used to live at
the ruined end of jefferson,
from when you tasted like sugar,
and i remembered this while i crossed the field,
was tired suddenly, was old,
and a storm was moving in,
was pushing down from canada,
and i couldn’t get warm,
couldn’t find the staircase or speak your name
and the song was almost over,
and i finally fell the last three stories & hit the mattress,
i finally heard the final words approaching in this empty house,
in this dying age,
and i closed my eyes & smiled,
felt the memory of your warmth & i breathed,
and i spoke your name & i slept

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About John Sweet


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John Sweet, born 1968, opposed to all that is evil. He has been living in the vast wasteland that is upstate New York for the majority of his life, is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the idea that true democracy is a myth. All pertinent facts about his life can be found somewhere in the vast piles...read more of his unpublished works.
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