John Tustin


I keep thinking of her,
just one of many who ghosted me,
to use the 21st century parlance.

I keep thinking of her,
so-so looking,
incredibly stupid,
nice thighs in the pictures,
sturdy fleshy body.
That’s the way I thought about her –
like chicken parts,
something I wanted to tear into
just because I was famished.
I imagine the things I would do to her
if I was confident and there were no consequences:
things I would do with my hands
and with not-my-hands.
Rude things I would do
while she told me she didn’t like it
but secretly did like it.

I keep thinking of her.
Among all the ghost-wreckage,
much of it unremembered,
for some reason it’s Deb
that keeps crossing into my mind
while I’m lying here.
It’s bestial. 
I’m a real animal
and she’s still pretty stupid
but she wants me now
because she knows what I’m for
and I know what she’s for,
so it doesn’t matter how dumb
or otherwise useless she is
and I get to getting to it;
putting her to use.
Really getting it done.

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