THE JERKS IN THE NEXT CONDO
The jerks in the next condo
park their little red car
right next to my front door
and they’re always talking
when they’re going to the car
or have gotten out of it
and it irritates me to hear them
and when I’m taking a shower
I hear their murmurs through the wall
sometimes
and then I don’t sing while I’m in there
in case they can hear me;
and the jerks in the next condo
leave their garbage in big white trash bags
all week on their closed-in porch
even though the dumpster is a one-minute walk
and the guy never says hello if our eyes meet
and he has a fucking man-bun
and the girl has lovely red hair
but all but sneers in my direction
or the direction of my condo if I’m inside.
Her sour face could freeze the cock off of a snowman.
I’m glad they avoid me
just like I avoid them
(and everyone else in the neighborhood, really)
and even though I don’t park
in front of their door
and I would say hello
if I couldn’t avert myself in time from their gaze,
I bet they think I’m a jerk, too –
with complaints that could fill an entire page.
The entire development is embroiled
in a hundred battle-less wars like this.
A SMALL RED WOUND
My love for you is a small red wound
The size of a cigarette burn
In the center of the center of me
That will not heal.
No scab, no film, no cover –
Just an open manhole:
A peek into the sewer
In the center of the center of me.
At night it glows
Like a cigarette stem end in the dark.
It itches like a bug on the skin
That points its needle down and down.
Never to be healing,
Never to be scarred over.
Each night I worm my finger in;
I poke and prod and explore.
My love for you is a small red wound
As round as a hole punch,
As deep as solitude, as red as burning:
Shot clean through to the other side.
THE RED STREAM IS CLOGGED
The red stream is clogged
with the swollen bodies of the dead
and you are among the corpses.
Nothing can move forward or backward,
up or downstream
and I sit with crossed legs on the shore,
taking in the stench of death and solitude.
You are there, my love,
my cold dead love
and your body is spongy and pallid,
your hair is sandy lifeless tresses,
no longer as black as black can be
but the bland colorlessness of dust.
Your face resembles the face I once kissed
but your lips are blue,
your eyes cloudy and webbed.
The red stream is blocked
with the husks of the dead
and the boats have vanished,
no longer waiting their turn;
swimmers no longer dive in,
all of the fish have died of strangulation.
I see your dead face,
I see your clammy hand,
the hand that once reached out to me,
pulled me in, pushed me forward,
touched my cock and tangled in my hair.
I see your gray hand that floats
among the yellow corpses.
Spires rise from great cities,
temples burn their offerings
and stink up the sky
while I sit with crossed legs on the shore,
contemplating all those turgid bodies
that float and float
and never get completely rotten.
I look at you there among them
with dusty tresses stripped of their black.
Your hair dances along the still water
and I wait for you to live again,
knowing that you won’t.
©2023 John Tustin All rights reserved.
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection from Cajun Mutt Press is now available at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6W2YZDP . fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
(Cajun Mutt Press, June 2023)
