Premiere Generation Ink.


the mouths of sleeping rapists

monday morning hungover
beneath the dull scream of
church bells

birds explode from
back alleys and the mouths of sleeping
rapists

there's
no one worth saving

no one worth
believing
and the pennies are cold
against my eyes

and your next door neighbor
has his gun out
again

has his wife on the floor
his son and daughter against
the wall

and the slaves are all
buried on government land

and the dogs
guard their bones like
jealous lovers

thin and trembling in
the pale december sunlight

almost human
and trying hard to be
better


John Sweet

This poem is appearing in the Poetry Journal
Premiere Generation Ink. Volume 1 Number 2


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