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a poem by John Tustin


This bed that stinks like only me,
This room that echoes lost like soup for one,
Like a can of beans with a spoon sticking out,
Like eight empty beer bottles decaying like old love
On the sink,
These sheets with my sweat stains and cum stains
And greasy handprints
And the mania of spilled dreams,
The reality of sleeping unloved and not thought of.

Dreams of you, dreams of not being alone anymore,
Just dreams of any someone,
In this room where a single spider crawls along the wall
Like the inevitable
To find the windowsill and wait,
Grin and wait and
I ache and tremble from this bed that stinks like only me,
The covers up to here to barricade,
This bed that resembles a tower without rails,
An immovable stone of dull pain,
In this room full of noiselessness and the terror
Of lonely middle-aged sadness
As I full headfirst into
The pit of another day.

© by John Tustin
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011