Outlaw Poetry By John D Robinson

John D Robinson is a UK poet: His work appears widely in the small press: his latest chapbooks are 'The Making Of An Outlaw' (Scars Publications 2017) 'These Poems Stole Your Lunch Money' with Bradley Mason Hamlin (Holy&intoxicated Publications 2018)

3 FLOORS UP

I gazed at her face a long

while before I climbed off

the bed: she looked older

than any grandma: I had

no recall of the previous

night or this fully

clothed elderly stranger

I had awoken next to:

I made it to a window,

opened it up and

vomited into the street

3 floors below: I was a

long way from home, I

recognised nothing: on

the 2nd floor slept a

loudly snoring, toothless

old naked man: I found

the bathroom and then

the kitchen: I took

beer, bread and cheese

and stepped out into

a brand new day that

was just waking up:

I lit a cigarette as the

street-lamps switched off,

my footsteps sounded

with an early triumph

as I walked away.

LIKE STARVING RATS

The only constant in her nearly

18 years has been abuse and

pain: raped at 7 years old, she

is the eldest of 5 children who

witnessed their drunken

father beat their mother and

then disappear from their lives:

she raised and protected her

siblings as the sexual

assaults continued against

her: she began self-harming,

razors to her arms and

legs and torso, forcefully

head-butting walls and

not eating for 2 – 3 weeks,

swallowing pills of overdose

and the heaviness of

such despicable human

hell will not let her alone

and gnaws like starving

rats at her young soul

and since aged 15 she has

been in psychiatric

hospitals and in a few

days time she will be 18,

an adult, with no

childhood behind her and

the outside world

awaits this youthful

woman to enter it’s arena,

and she will,

expecting nothing from it

and it’s nothing she will get

from this world that

seems angry with itself

and no thought

or time for a

soul, already,

so very broken.

ONE OF THEIR GIRLS

‘There were 3 of them: I was one

of their 20 girls and they fed us

with heroin and takeaway pizzas:

they continuously assaulted and

gang-raped us, burnt us with

cigarettes and cut our hair’

and then she started crying,

there were no tracks on her

arms but her legs were

riddled and ugly, somehow,

through it all she had kept

a presence of herself as an

individual: I could see it

through the tears that

tumbled down her face: I

could see it as she lifted her

eyes to mine: I could see it,

that she was alive within

herself, that those bastards

hadn’t succeeded in

taking her heart.

MISUNDERSTOOOD

‘My mother doesn’t understand me

and it’s upsetting me that she

doesn’t understand’ she said to me:

a 64 year old squat, bald, toothless

guy who had recently and

superficially, changed his gender:

he was no longer Colin but

Julie and wore a huge and

hideous oversized blonde wig, a

dazzling orange dress, cosmetics

smeared and clumsy, a pair of

bright red flat shoes: she told

me that when she first visited

mother in the Care Home as

Julie, her mother laughed,

for the first time in years,

she laughed thinking it was a joke

and it took a while before she could

explain to her that she’d had

these feelings all her life and now

was the time to let-free her

inner-self and mother said that

she would never be able to bring

herself to call ‘him’ Julie and

that he’d always be her son Colin

and that it was probably just a

phase he was going through

and that he would out-grow it:

‘Maybe she needs time’ I suggested:

‘She hasn’t got a lot of time left,

she’s 96’ she replied:

‘Maybe shaving the beard would

help some’ I offered:

‘I’ve been thinking about that’

said Julie.

LIFE BECOMES REAL

Life becomes real

when your woman

walks into the

morning kitchen

and simultaneously

belches and passes

wind as Schubert

plays softly from

the radio and the 2

cats jump onto the

kitchen table and

the kettle is boiling

for tea

as a dog is

howling in the

neighbourhood and

your bosses are

expecting you on

time and the rain

clouds are gathering,

life becomes real

all of a sudden.

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.

STARS & BREASTS 

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
phenomenon
when my wife bent
over to kiss me goodnight
exposing her breasts
beneath her thin
night-attire;
looking at the marvel
of stars one moment
and then the sensuous
image of breasts the next;
surely
it doesn’t get better than
this
 I thought,
feeling like a lucky
bastard once again.

Poet John D Robinson

CANAL BARGE MEMORY

‘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?,
and
you don’t remember 
trying to escape from the
police?’
‘No’ I said
‘You don’t remember
dancing with that 
beautiful black girl with
long beaded hair in the
nightclub?’
‘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
you’
one of them said,
‘Was it?’ I said.



NO RETURN

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



PRETTY BOY

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
cat-flap
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
‘cunt’
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.



MARTIN

After nearly an absence
of  3 decades
I think of you again
and of that night
drunk
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
strangers;
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,
silently,
again and again; 
and then
I let the
paper slip from my fingers
and looked out of the
window, 
waiting for something
to happen.