HELL IS YOUR BELIEF

[hell is your belief]

spent too many years
confusing hope and fear

walking backwards into burning houses

a first wife who disappeared
and then a second

children

lovers

drugs, sure, but i don’t
remember them ever doing shit

don’t remember a day where the
idea of suicide didn’t
cross my mind at some point, and which
choice is it that makes you a coward?

how many strikes does the
prophet get
before we shoot that fucker dead?

any number divided by zero is
the best answer you’re gonna get,
and believe in christ, sure, but
just don’t waste your entire life
waiting for him to save you

understand that there are better
things to do on your knees than pray

any god worth believing in
will tell you the same

mythology

this old man who is not dead, who is dying,
is on fire, is laughing at the
simplemindedness of picasso, at the
tedium of bukowski and the hypocrisy of lennon

says all of this art made by
assholes just trying to get laid

says all of these women willing to endure
so much goddamn pain
just to prove they’re in love

says nothing at all, which is how I
finally realize he’s not my father

your first death, which no one ever remembers

gotta thread the needle between
blood & lust

gotta dig down deep to
where the fun is

the cheap drugs that you can actually
feel crawling beneath your skin, and
pain is good but there needs to be more

ask cobain

ask hemingway

the cure for addiction is the same as
the cure for cancer, and so why cry?

none of us are gonna be here to
see how it ends anyway

none of us truly believe in a
future beyond our own minor
deaths, and every war is a
righteous war to someone

we are all born the enemy, okay?

can’t be helped

it’s no one’s fault, but there’s
always a target on your back

always a bullseye laid over
your heart, and so
which prayer holds the most power?

which heaven is the right one?

send me a postcard
when you find out

there’s no thought that lasts forever

and you’ll be beautiful, yes,
and you’ll be desired,
and then you’ll be dead

in this order?

not necessarily, i guess, but
i’ve never been opposed to hope

i’ve never been shot in the
back or the throat or the heart,
but the century is still young

and i’ve outlived christ, so
at least that’s something

i’ve outlived cobain,
modigliani and my father,
but now what?

how best to deal with these
5 a.m. thoughts of suicide?

these children who laugh and
tell me they love me?

listen

the passing days are all
windowless rooms in any story I
tell and one war makes just as
much sense as he next

whatever you don’t
understand, you destroy

whatever you can’t buy,
you steal

doesn’t take a genius to
figure out that the future can
only be built upon the
corpses of the past

John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism which, as luck would have it, has all the best bands. His published collections include NO ONE STARVES IN A NATION OF CORPSES (2020 Analog Submission Press) and THERE’S ONLY ONE WAY THIS IS GOING TO END (Cyberwit, 2023).