Two by John Tustin
                                                                  
 This Ocean                                                      
                                                           
Sometimes the loneliness of this ocean
suffocates me
like a fish flopping,
gills deprived,
on the shoreline.

Swimming naked,
languished
in this arid ocean
of soulless souls.
                                                          
The sharks aim
for my most tender flesh,
                                                            
the seagulls point and mock
from their gliding perches
overhead.
                                                       
The parasite fish
 nip at my wounds.
                                                   
The bottom feeders wait
with unblinking luminescent eyes
on the dusky floor
to battle over
the scraps of my drifting remains.

Exposed.
Deposed.
Swimming off-kilter.

Suffocating in the expance
of her will,
her command,
her unfathomed discourtesy,
oily evil.

Sometimes the loneliness of this ocean
is irreversible carnage
to the living soul.

But still superior
to swimming
with the school.


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Working Life


Watching bodies emptying of life
like a deflating balloon.
One day there is something
behind the eyes
and the next day
there is nothing there.
The smile is false
and decaying.
A mannequin head.
A walking, talking,
consuming,
defecating 
corpse.

Human debris,
floating in the cesspool,
 luckless life.
Living beyond pain,
breathing beyond repair.
Taught to attain,
devour,
discard.
Going through the motions,
eyes like dull nickels.
Disconnected
between the mind
and heart.
Emotional malfunction.

A bullet would be kind.
A relief.
This relentless
emptying of souls
is cruelty itself.
And the eyes.
The eyes.
There’s nothing there.
The world is a bandit
that robs you
of yourself.