Dontcha worry none son(ode to jack kerouac)

•October 3, 2008 • Leave a Comment

Dontcha get tired of wandering
Its ok to weep
Dusting off yer feet
Bloodied mess
Heading for the sun in the west
Jumping the trains
On route 88 cause its ta be great
On the other side o theworld
Beating on the great big door
Mmmmmhhmmmm hhhhhmm
Right inside its gonna remain a mystery
Until you get to be free
Of society breaking the bread in half
Sharing yer little place
Just enough space to breathe
N write for me
Telling me bout the dogs mawing on yer legs
Bout the cogs in yer brain
Laying hungover in yer alleyway beds
Trying to make yer point
Dropping yer little drops onta the paper
Cause yer so lonely
Without me
Reading yer tales about me
Offering yer mercy
Handing over yer life
Trying ta save what ya couldn’t
Drinkin ta get to a higher plane
Never got ta ride high in an airplane
So yer spreadin yer wings on tha ground
Wonderin whats right when its all wrong
Hittin tha end o the road
We have seen ya come n go
Now its time ta sleep a while
Dusting of tha miles
Sleep a while
Handin tha reigns to me
Dontcha worry none son
I know how ta chase tha mornin sun
Packin my gun
Shootin holes in tha sky
T’gether we can cry
Droppin our lil drops onta some papers
Coverin our bodies in tha cold
Dontcha worry yer tale will be told
When I accept the destination
Given ta me…

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Haggard & Halloo present *99 by John C Sweet

•October 2, 2008 • Leave a Comment

I am pleased that the editors of Haggard and Halloo have published my poem *99. This write is a stepping stone to  the fringes of inner madness, releasing angst and revealing a path while relinquishing the same path.  I invite you to read this work on http://haggardandhalloo.com and feel free to provide your feedback.

Thanks to the editors of Haggard and Halloo!

Now I am off to free myself from this sensory overload of my human bodily existence.

john out.

Samsarame

•September 25, 2008 • Leave a Comment

An ancient language
Unspoken in any church
Or shouted in an alley
Puts my intellect to shame
Pricking my finger
I bleed in this place
Trying to paint my name
Onto my statue
Some kind of expectation
Some kind of extraordinary
Pleasure seemed to hunt me
Chasing me back into time
When Sanskrit was the poets rhyme
A simple Samadhi
In another place and time
Something secret I am about to hear
But my dear
I am all alone in here
Smiling like my consciousness has left my body
Fingering my flesh
It perishes
For I have no more wine
Do I have to have it?
my cellestial organ
thrums
hums in my ears
building pressure my dear
counting the beats inside the outside
of this hollow
what of it have I ever been sane
babbling like a brook
I roll my tongue with a snap
And clench my mouth
Slowing down the pulsating rise
Of the river raging inside
I gotta have it
My last day in the sun
Bathing in the river
Drinking every last drop
Choking on the muck
Trying to calm this ruckus
Trying to slow down
But I am too afraid
It’s too hard to understand
What has been written in an ancient language
And I have no one to read to me
To teach me about this ride
Alongside my shadow
That tries to leave me
Cause it hates me
Hates the absorption of my ego child
Saturating my oneness
And all of my issues
Reminding me that I hate the early morning
And its sounds
Especially on this Sunday
For I have no mother
No father
All I have left is this mouth that grazes
On the scorched meadows
Especially on this Sunday
Cause I don’t belive in time
Or its senseles capture of my mind
Bleeding backwards
I rewind
Walking in circles
Playing out the days of my life
Counting the notches on the headboard
Left behind from my flailing dreaming
Leave me in somewhere
A graveyard somwhere like a drive-in theatre
That collapsed in the coming crisis
Of the plastic flowers that never die
A simple duality
Curing any kind of anxious
Mescaline memory
That has been said to open
Hidden portals
To a higher plane
But here I am left to dangle on the edge of the
Temple
Waiting for the monks
To return
And cast it all out
Marching I want to hear them shout
And do it with some matches and gasoline
Maybe then we can speak
Meeting up with our ghosts
Tipping our hands
In a greeting
Then maybe I can understand that ancient language
And no longer cry in the dark
Shadow of my statue
And it wont be bronzed
It will fade just like this dream
Cause I know everybody has one
And its just like mine
My scalpel dies with my skin
And I cant take my blood with me
It’s all the same in the end
Feel I
Feel I feel
Free
Samsarame
Samsarame
Samsarame

Wet crew

•May 9, 2008 • Leave a Comment

A Mexican huarache band twanged a zing zang
Round our table
My girl sat spinning tiny umbrellas in tune
With the zune of the loom
While my fingers danced tinkling twinkling
Stramm strumming about the hum drum
Of the day
Virgin beers and Mexican queers
With all their lusty leers and hash ‘tween their teeth
Proprietors of sloth like desires
Twanging a song in the US of A’s new metric
Language that has overtaken our land
With a wad of peso’s in one hand
Maybe a buck or two–
with backs ready to be broken
Dreaming of America’s tokens
Their shallow dreams resemble
Those of a king with all his riches
Especially if they have some of our white
Bitches–so in love with you my wetback crew–
Taking a lean back in my chair I run my
Fingers through my girls hair
She grins
While my eyes are perched on the fake smiles of
The huarache gang
That waits for a penny
I spat
Look at that I aint got no gold teeth for you to lift
I aint got no dime tah spare
All I got is my ladies hair that hangs in my face
Like a jungle boogie
So in love with you my wetback crew—
I aint happy or sad
I aint mad or glad
I am just chilling in good times or bad
Happy or sad
Wondering if my people will wake up
And see what I see
This land  of red white and blue
Is tattered and blue
So blue so blue
Does it really matter
Are we all together?
Not in these times of hot humid Mexican weather
So I will sit here while they stram strumm
To the hum drum of this day
Dreaming of the night when I lay
My lady down
Thinking they can still dance around with those
Fake grins and dirty skins
Lopsided sombrero’s American deniro
Singing songs of their lonesome town
Wanting to buy a dream or two
With the pennies I don’t have to spare
that’s the price we pay
When we listen to the songs of lonesome towns
In the heart of America’s crown.

Part XVIII

•April 19, 2008 • Leave a Comment

Slipping into a trance-and I imagined you wanted to

Lay with me naked on the shore
Rolling into the bubbling suds salty slick like
reflecting off the oil in the water
Cyclops eyes stare
Stick a finger in POP
Folding into the pools
Where I buried your body in the sand
Marking your life grave with tiny flags
From the eastern shores of Hiroshima
Democracy disguised in western revelries
The one orange sun hangs low kissing the waves
& winks
This is kind of strange watching your skin pale yellow
Squinting my eyes trying to arrange
This strange covering of bones, maybe a mermaid metamorphosis,
Kiss me and breathe for me
Cause I lost my sense in the gasp while
Experiencing the fallout from the winds
That sting like acid from a dropper
Flushing my blotched skin
Into a full blush
Yer Nipples poke my chest that heaves
When you cleave my heart with your open pores
That are weeping for me to suckle
as if I am the last of humanity you are trying to feed
Save the masses cause the gases have escaped the history books
Cooking our brains with endorphin snails
Crawling away from the fires of the other lovers
On the beach
Ashes to dust handfuls of lust but its only your hair
Wrapped around my body tangled in the seaweed from the great big pond
That just wont stop
Coming and going
Bubbling gurgling cries of great white memories lies.

Ripped Desires

•April 18, 2008 • Leave a Comment

I was looking through a crack in the door
Watching her give  birth to a monarchy
Ahhhh Virginal soft skinned
But now…Wait!
My medicated mind
Screeches back in time
watching my hand slip down
Her flushed thighs… then she whispers–
The Maker washed the snow machine and its all coming undone
With the rains of London’s sludge that feed the
Rats and pluck the mockery wigs packed
So thick with filth
Bathe me in my after birth
Of ripped desires
Rape me with the jokers bells—
Then I cause ah cackle when the curtain falls
On the bosom of dames
That continue to dance even though the music is over
Candles burn dripping hatred
On my mantle tracing the wrinkles on my forehead
Lighting  my eyes on fire
Ease your skirts onto my lap
Spilling your ink
Dippin fingers in deep
Shake the quill pluck the top
And lay me down in the fields where mushrooms
Grow in the shit
Race down the cobbled streets and start the
Waiting for my friends outside the door
Faces pressed to the glass
They just wont stop living my life in mockery
Maybe I’m dead
So very dead on the side of the road
But before I go
I want to sing you to sleep
Lay inside my arms & let your hair hang around
Now My head has its tongue pressed to the ground
Its coming all so clear chop my dinner my dear
With the pestle and pummel, I need to touch
The dust that will become my memory
Run I roll over making a gentle sound
Run I listen with my ears  to your feet
Dance a tribal beat
Watch my eyes become bleary and blind
White and milk like
don’t you like me
Will you like me
When I can no longer see this royal mess
Try to undress my skin
Like peeling the drapes aside
Letting the moonlight caress my grin
Maybe im dead
Dancing with the trees that made such a mockery
Of me
it’s a good thing she birthed my special friend
That can dance on the fire of  my remains
Till the end
Until the end I will remain
Casting blame

The Evolution: beingjohnsweet

•April 17, 2008 • Leave a Comment

I am pleased to announce my latest book: The Evolution of: beingjohnsweet has been picked up by http://innercirclepublishing and is available for pre-order! Availability on Amazon within days.

The Evolution will continue long after you finish reading this book, from the first page to the last you will wander with John; purposeful, carefully, recklessly, lovingly and dreamily. The dharma notes you will find linger on many of the stanzas; much like how the dharma lies 6 feet under the brambles, dig deep enough and you will find what you are seeking. When the wheels turn in the authors mind, the world stops just for a minute as he writes for the world; offering up a lesson, an idea, a spiritual message of awakening and a whisper to your soul. Listen carefully as your very own sage offers to you words that can bring forth a smile, a frown, a bellow and a gasp.