in which i begin to suspect that my life is only something dali dreams while his bedroom burns
by
john sweet
| if i were a believer in luminous miracles i would draw you with wings if i were pollock i would cry would drink myself to a death like my father's or stare at the paint on my hands or dream of the 21st century as one version of hell what i'm getting at here is the futility of communication the endless stream of useless words scratched onto these cheap sheets of paper while young girls in central america turn up raped and butchered while the same empty war moves from country to country and from suburb to suburb and there are some among us who still talk in terms of winners and losers who believe that better bombs will save the world and what i do in the afternoon is drive to where the city stumbles and loses its way to where the factories have been abandoned and the children starve and there are crosses planted in the fields here but nothing beautiful grows there are truths written out in barbed wire and there is the simple logic of rust and if i were a painter i would know what to say if i were a poet i would understand the need to find beauty in these ruined landscapes would understand at least the need to try Poem copyright © John Sweet 2002. All rights reserved. |