Corrosion of The Soul / The Unread Poem by John Tustin

Corrosion of The Soul

I wake up when I like
On my days off,
Turning to no one and asking the wall
What time I should go to the store.
When shopping I avoid the crowded aisles,
I use the self-checkout.
When I get home I make sure the mirrors are covered
And then I put away the groceries.

All the food is mine.
All the time my own.
I sit and read.
Except for the music, nearly every sound
Comes from me.
I spend my life alone
Because evidence suggests
Corrosion of the soul
Is contagious.

I hope I’ve locked the doors and the windows
In time –
I think that to myself
As my theme song swells

Only in my own ears.

My wings quietly rustle in their disorderly folding
And my nose is beginning to forget
The smell of the sea on the wind.




The Unread Poem

This is the poem that is torn
from a looseleaf notebook,
asymmetrically folded
and left yellowing and rain-withered
on the windowsill furthest from any door.

This is the song that the shoemaker plays
in his shop that is permanently closed
because factories make the shoes now.

This is the dance that is danced
behind the barricaded bedroom door
by a lonely little girl
with one left foot and a wooden leg.

This is the speech that the stutterer practices
in his mirror of sweating palms,
never making it to the head of the classroom.

This is the poem that is written,
then tucked away,
not to be found until the death
of the poet.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Seeds by John Tustin

The latent seeds
you hold in your hand,
I hold in my heart –

the seeds the assassin
gives us
that crack open
and grow
their long vines,
their dark flowers,

their bittersweet
fruits

that we strangle on,
that we wear like uniforms,
that we devour
in the night

are dissipated
by morning
and only
the mildewed scent
of its soil
remains.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Cold Feet / Darkness Has a Smell by John Tustin

Cold Feet

The rain falls in sheets
As the music plays.
I look outside, hear the splattering
Upon my roof,
The street outside becomes a river

And I close my shades,
Get in bed, put the blanket up higher
As I shiver,
My blue skin trying not to notice
The cold

As I wait for your bare feet
To come in and get warm
Next to mine.

The rain subsides,
The sounds outside now just birds
And the occasional passing car.
I finally fall asleep for a little while.

I wake up in the darkness.

The rain no longer falls in sheets
And the only sounds now
Are the leaky bathroom faucet
And the wind in the trees
That sway outside of this room
Where I lie awake
With my endless night
And my broken heart

And my cold feet.




Darkness Has a Smell

It smells like houses aflame
It smells like the sulfur of hell
It smells like a piano bashed
To smithereens

It smells like a derailed train
It smells like a car on the side of the road
And smoking
With the hood up

It smells like bodies discovered
After years buried and hidden
It smells like the clean fur
Of a cat who is always watching you

It smells like El Paso motels
An underpass in Corpus Christi
The River Styx
When the skeleton boatman
Stirs it

It smells like you and me
When you are there
And I am here
The lightning flashing
And illuminating nothing

And everything

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

The Sun and The Moon by John Tustin

The sun and the moon have become spectators,
Taking turns watching.
The raindrops are the guests,
The ocean waves are pallbearers
As they lead these words to drown
At the bottom of the ocean
That pulls everything down to the bottom –
From words to bodies to the memories
Of words and bodies
Now out of sight
Of the sun and the moon.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Dinner on Sunday by John Tustin

When I die
They will still have their dinner on Sunday
All together
And talk about the people
Who don’t attend.

When I die
You will pretend it never happened.
No one in your life will know
And once you will cry
When you are alone.

When I die
There are only two people
Whose reaction is a mystery to me.
But does that matter if I am dead?

When you die
They will still have their dinner on Sunday
All together
And they will talk about you
But they’ll never talk about us
Except in winking insinuations.

I slobber on my pillow in my sleep
And dream about being missed

By you,

By two,

By anyone.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

The Seas Boil Over by John Tustin

The seas boil over
Killing all life within
And spilling the blood
Upon the rocks
Along the shores.
The clouds drip with the blood
That rises as steam
And I stand in that rain
Trembling

Not because I am cold
But because I am doomed.

A Spanish guitar is playing
As I close my eyes
And wait.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Birds Roosting in the Belfry by John Tustin

Memories of you

Are birds roosting in the belfry

Of a church where I have come

To seek sanctuary

From my misery  –

The cooing, almost imperceptible,

Is beautiful

But keeps me up

Night upon night

Upon night.

In the times of silence

I lie awake

And hold my breath,

Waiting and waiting

For the sound

Of rustling wings

To sweeten

The bitter din

That clutters up the ears

Inside my mind.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.