John Tustin

BLACK THROAT

by John Tustin

Vomit from the depths

Of the black throat.

Black words of bile

Along the front of the shirt

And on the sheets tangled

In sleepless jittery legs.

I have the words

Just not the right words

It’s all the wrong words

I write the wrong words.

The air is greasy–

All trans fats and salt.

The brain is fungal,

The tongue infested.

The words come out

As vomit from the depths

Of this cancerous black throat–

The words of bile

Dribbled along the front of my shirt

And my pants; these sheets tangled

Over the flaccid and the useless,

A few black spatters on the floor

Beside the bed

With the only sounds

Heaving in the night.

WORKING IT ALL OUT

by John Tustin

Sometimes I’m jerking off

And it’s the third time that day

So it’s more work than pleasure

And I recall for a moment

Once when the hand pulling on my cock

Was not mine

And how much better that felt.

It stops me from what I’m doing

And I pull up my pants and make a cup of coffee instead.

I sit in my chair with the steam coming from the cup

And I have a sip

Then I put the side of the cup to my cheek

And revel in its warmth,

Remembering someone kissing my cheek, nuzzling me

And then kissing my mouth

And suddenly my lips are pressed to the side of the cup

With my upper lip over the rim

And I get so sad thinking about kissing

That I can’t drink the coffee any more

So I decide to go to sleep

But, lying there alone with my arm around the pillow–

Well, you know what that makes me think about.

At this point I can’t sleep

So I pull down my pants

And get back to working it all out

Like I was trying to do

In the first place,

Damn it.

THE BRUTALITY AND TERROR

by John Tustin

The brutality and terror of his fists curling up as you cower.

The brutality and terror of being one missing paycheck to homelessness.

The misery of Sunday church clothes,

Of reading out loud in front of the class,

Of that pop before the tire goes flat

On the passenger’s side front

And the rain’s increasing velocity.

The disgust of passing the mirror on the way to the bathroom.

The disgust of your hands shaking in the night while you think about the morning.

The pain of your right shoulder.

The pain of those phone calls you made that went unreturned.

The pain of those phone calls you never made.

The pain of your emptiness,

Your inner poverty,

Your current of flowing nothing

Swirling downward and downward.

The moment after climax.

The sadness of trees fallen in the storm.

The brutality and terror of this life without music,

Without meaning,

Without.

John Tustin's poetry has appeared in many literary journals in the last dozen in years, including Chiron Review, Underground Voices, and Rhino. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.