Poetry by John Tustin

THE ANGELS BURST FROM MY CHEST

At some point
When I am drinking
At night
Sometimes
If I drink enough
In a short time
The angels burst from my chest
And a bright light
Steams from my torso
 
They shoot words from trumpets
Handed to them by God
 
I don’t remember the words I say
Or the poems that come
But the next morning
Is all about
 
Editing
And apologizing
 
For God’s angels
And the trumpets
He has bestowed
Them




THE FALLACY OF HUMANITY 
 
I was going to write
That there is no love
In the world
Anymore
 
But the fact is
There never was
 
We are just herd animals
Running in our packs
Dumb bumbling tribes
 
Huddling for warmth
Comfort
The pretense of sympathy
 
The fallacy of humanity
 
Always ready to murder
At the promise
Of the tiniest
Crumb
 
What does it matter
If the mode of seduction
Is a compliment
The promise of shelter
The allure of potential joy
The lies of love
 
Ever since we conquered fire
Harnessed it
 
We’ve spent our lives
Searching for light
Then dousing it
When we catch it
 
It’s you against me
It’s me against the world
It’s me against you
It’s you against the world
 
Our backs against the falling fence
 
The alliances shift
With the motion of the waves
The placement of the sun
The dearth
Or plenty of clouds
 
Nobody really loves me
Nobody really loves you
It was never us against the world
It was me
And it was you
 
No love
Never love
It will always be this way
 
I tell you this
Because I love you:
 
There is no love
 
Never forget that




THIS IS MY DEATH 

this is my death
stepping over toys in the living
room with scabby eczema-ravaged feet,
beer burps and flatulence and false crown
 
this is my death
greasy lips disconnected slightly Neil Young blasting
as I contemplate pornography and
impossible dreams
 
this is my death
of subservient immolation
and the fear of
forward movement
 
this is my death
of steak and potatoes
and Sam Adams and Dr. Pepper
and Cadbury Fruit and Nut Bar
 
this is my death
of writing without reading
acting without thinking
needing without comprehending
 
this is my death
of words without action
of thought without deed
beautiful blue eyes surrounded by excrement
 
and fast-folding lies
medicated for comfort
dedicated only
to the promise that tomorrow will come

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John Tustin began writing poetry again a little over a decade ago after a hiatus just as long. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

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