John Tustin


All the old poets are dead
All the new poets are dead
Look at them stripped of their skin
And looking like piles
Of bloody firewood
All the words that can be written or spoken
Have been written and spoken already
And they fall to the ground in flames
Spiraling in mad disintegration

Time is up
It’s all gone
Falling overboard
And drowning in the endless nothing at all
That truly surrounds us
We drew the shit cards
And the dealer dealt from the bottom of the deck
But no one will believe us
We’ve already bluffed too long anyway

Can’t unring a bell
Can’t roll over and find love and understanding
Waiting for you on the other side of the bed
Can’t turn on the lights
With the flick of a switch
Can’t can’t can’t

In a darkness
This deep

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