Poetry By John D. Robinson

John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; he began writing poetry aged 16 and published 1st poem a year later; many of his poems have appeared in the small press and online publications including; Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Dead Snakes, Pulsar, The Commonline Journal,The Kitchen Poet, Mad Swirl, The Chicago Record, Poetic Diversity, Your One Phone Call, The Clockwise Cat and upcoming poems appearing in Ink Sweat & Tears, The Legendary, Message in a Bottle, The Sentinel Literary Quarterly; he is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats, 1 dog and he loves to drink wine and stare into space whilst listening to gentle classical music.

AN OLD FLAME IN A NEW WORLD

At the age of 73 you’d think he’d

put the brakes on a little;

he’d worked all his life;

he’d had a mortgage

a wife

and children

and now,

had none of

those things;

he’d like to drink and

party a little and for many

decades kept it going

and then he staggered

into the company of  a

gang of guys a third of

his age

who carried guns and

knives and hard drugs

and he was tormented and

scared and old and

thrust into a world he

knew nothing about

and he couldn’t handle

this new menacing world

with its guns and knives

and the threats to kill and

the forced marches at 1a.m.

to an ATM

and then one day

after drinking some cheap

alcohol, decided he’d

burn down the apartment

of a troublesome, interfering

and innocent and fragile

nosey 78 year old

nosey neighbour

he threw a pan of hot

cooking oil over the neighbour’s

door and attempted to set it

alight with a cigarette lighter

but failed

and all the while shouting

and screaming and ranting

and he was charged with

attempted murder; intent to

kill and destroy by an

attempted act of arson;

now

chances are I’ll never make it to

73

and if I do,

I hope I have the spirit and

the energy to fight

and have the intelligence

to piss off people

by being there

drunk

and alive

in a world

that’s been setting

itself on fire

for centuries.

A BETRAYAL

“How could you?

how could you do

that to me?

and with that

fat whore

how could you?

really?

I can never forgive

you,

never,

I mean, how was it?

fucking that

fat slut?”

she paused and

looked away,

I stood quiet and

shameful and

without defence,

she looked at me

with watery eyes

“You’ve betrayed me,

everything we had

together

you’ve betrayed it all

for a

fat-bitch-fuck

and I hope you feel

good about it now”

I could say nothing

“You bastard

I love you” she said

and began crying

and I felt completely

worthless and empty

and felt like crying

myself but didn’t

and said

“I’m so very sorry”

and I was

truly sorry,

but it was a deep cut,

a wound that would

never completely

heal

and it is somewhere,

this hurt,

it is with us

like an ever

invisible lurking fog

ever there to

descend

like a darkened

shroud.

DRUGS

I’ve consumed a large

quantity of prescribed

and non-prescribed

drugs

and wine

these past couple of

days;

having the opportunity and

the capacity to do so;

the drugs

and wine

enabled me to

cruise quietly

through those

darkened hours of

self-doubt and self-

loathing

and I know you’d feel

disappointed with me

for taking the drugs

and

drinking wine

and that’s why I

haven’t told you;

I don’t want to

disappoint you again,

yet another time;

and if you ever read

this poem,

I’m sure

you’ll give it some

understanding before

the disappointment

envelopes the demons

I’ve given into

time

and

time

again.