Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Outlaw Poetry By John D Robinson

John D Robinson is a published poet; ‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2016)  Cowboy Hats & Railways’ (Scars Publications 2016); a contributor to the 2016   48th Street Press Broadside Series; his work appears widely in the small press and online literary journals including Rusty Truck; Red Fez; Outlaw Poetry; Degenerate Literature; Haggard & Halloo; Beatnik Cowboy; Boyslut; Anti Heroin Chic; In Between Hangovers; Your One Phone Call; Down In The Dirt Magazine; he is married and lives in the UK with his wife; 1 dog ; 3 cats and swallows copious amounts of wine.


I was crouched down in
the back-yard inhaling
hash and looking up into
the beautiful clear dark
skies of early September,
gazing mesmerised by
the stars and thoughts
of the speed-of-light and
other wondrous
when my wife bent
over to kiss me goodnight
exposing her breasts
beneath her thin
looking at the marvel
of stars one moment
and then the sensuous
image of breasts the next;
it doesn’t get better than
 I thought,
feeling like a lucky
bastard once again.

Poet John D Robinson


‘You don’t remember anything
about last night do you?’
‘No’ I said
‘So you don’t remember
trying to smash your way
through one of the tiny
porthole windows?,
you don’t remember 
trying to escape from the
‘No’ I said
‘You don’t remember
dancing with that 
beautiful black girl with
long beaded hair in the
‘No’ I said
‘So you don’t remember
that some of her friends
didn’t want her to dance 
with a white guy?’
‘No’ I said
my friends looked at one
another and they began
laughing and grinning;
‘It was one hell of a 
fucking night because of
one of them said,
‘Was it?’ I said.


Crackling from the Sunday 
radio came
“Now let us pray for the
broken hearted and the lost
souls of our world,
the alcoholics and drug
addicts, the ghosts of our
towns and cities that have
wandered far from the
path of righteousness and
now walk the roads of
sin; let us pray that the
gates of heaven open up
for our brothers and
sisters, for these wretched
spirits let us pray”
after I had finished
rolling a joint of powerful
weed I felt thankful
and good that somebody
was sparing a little time
and a prayer for me
without expecting a return


He was one of the most
prettiest cats I have ever
seen; splattered with
white and cream and 
freckles of black and
ginger fur; large soppy
yellow eyes and he
had one of the most
loudest of cries ever
given to a cat;
and we didn’t have a
and he’d scream to be
let in and he’d scream
to be let out
and it was a shrieking
ear stabbing cry and it
could piss-off people
very quickly;
one afternoon I was
with a book and radio
when I heard Jazzy
wailing outside;
I got up and opened up
the door
as I did
I saw his lovely fluffy
white arse run down 
the path;
moments later he 
returned screaming,
I got up and opened
up the door to see
his little ass disappear
down the path again;
this was repeated 2
or 3 more times
and then finally, I
pulled back the door
and shouted
and then looked up 
from the vanishing
tail of Jazzy into the
face of my neighbour,
Slobby Bobby
and he looked back at
me shocked and hurt
like he was a victim of
some terrible fate;
I scrambled a smile
at the fat fuck,
stepped inside,
slammed the door shut
and then turned
up the volume on
my radio.


After nearly an absence
of  3 decades
I think of you again
and of that night
when you fished out
your dick and pissed
into the water-fountain
feature in the middle
of the bar
and the barmaid
pointing and screaming;
a few weeks before
you’d cold-turkey’d
kicking junk and I
was there for you
though we were
our friendship was
brief and intense
and beautiful and
then you left;
a week or so into
rehab you checked out
and came looking
for me and didn’t
find me;
I was on a 3 day drunk
and 4 days later
your body was found
dead of heroin OD
60 miles away in a
wet red bricked alleyway;
the morning city sun
stumbling across your
cold lovely face
as I took care of
another atomic 
hangover and then
later, finding the note
you’d slid beneath
the door; and I held it
like it was something
alive and precious
and I read your words,
again and again; 
and then
I let the
paper slip from my fingers
and looked out of the
waiting for something
to happen.

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