The dark place where these words come from and all the other ones; this bottomless well of emptiness, this black pit with no sound or sight or smell. I pluck the words from there like grapes from a vine and I don’t know how they got there or why I’m the one chosen to retrieve them. I don’t choose the time or the place or the manner of its coming. The words are blood and muscle and all of the bad things the world wishes it could seize up and spit out. The words are diseased and desperate, gleaming jewels of overcast misery. Even the chosen words of softness and empathy and love have a tinge of damp sorrow and hidden violence. How did this tiny world not collapse like a dead star, like an exsanguinated rat into the nil during the years the words could not escape? I dwell in this dark place and sometimes these gloriously vivid dark words take wind and land on the page and I put my name on the bottom of the page because I own the words – but I do not make them: I don’t know how they come or why. But when they stop, so will I.
About the Poet:
John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on the island of Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.
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