A BAD HAND
Even as a young boy of
4 years old he was odd;
I mean, he would never
look at you but clean
through you like you
weren’t there at all and
most of the time he was
eerily silent;
I was a decade older and
would occasionally child-
mind; I’d hear his mother
return in the early hours
of the morning with some guy
and make out I was asleep
upon the sofa, I listened
as they enjoyed themselves
and he never stirred
from his sleep;
leaving school he
attempted to work for
a living but things
didn’t work-out; he
couldn’t take being told
what to do and he
couldn’t get the fuck up
in the mornings and
he wandered away
from home and became
a slave to alcohol and
drugs and day to
day survival;
over time he and
I would meet in
passing and every time
he’d react differently,
he’d be friendly or
suspicious of me, or
he’d be silent or
ignore me or be overly
animated;
After numerous threats
and acts of robbery and
violence towards his
mother the Law courts
prohibited him from
nearing her home and
literally just hours after
she had died in
hospital, he broke into
her flat and stayed for
2 or 3 days eating and
drinking all that was
there and sold anything
of his mother’s that
he could and then
48 hours later he was
found dead of a drugs
O.D in his
rented room aged
42;
Several weeks prior
to his death he had
been savagely beaten
by money-owed dealers;
very few were surprised
or shocked by the
circumstances of his
passing; several people
commented that
‘It was always on the cards’
 |
| The poet John D. Robinson |
A PRIVATE READING
Moments after she began
reading, she began
laughing and she
continued giggling
until she finished
reading a poem
about sex with a
former lover;
I sat next to her
enjoying her laughter
as I have done
for many years,
as she handed me
back the paper she
said with a grin
“Yeah, you’ve
exaggerated it a
little haven’t you?”
I looked at her
and said “Maybe”
she laughed again
and then said
“Well, maybe I
should write some
of my exploits down
in some poems, how
about that?”
I thought about it
for a while and then
said to her
“So you haven’t
told me everything?”
she smiled again and
said “Maybe not
everything”
“Not everything
huh?” I said
“A woman can use
her hot imagination too, ”
she said
“I’d like to read that”
I said
“It’s better to live
the fantasy out” she said
on the verge of
laughing,
“Can you make that
a promise?” I asked
“At our age’ she said
smiling widely.
‘I don’ think so”
I nodded silently
agreeing .
GETTING BY BACK THEN
We lived in a cold water
hovel above a 2nd hand
bookshop;
Frieda was an elderly
lesbian and she loved
to handle books and
young women and
when times were
tough I’d drop
downstairs and sell her
at bottom dollar,
my 1st edition
black sparrow press
Bukowski books,
and I’d beg her not
to put them on the
shelves and she’d give
me a week to buy them
back at the sold price
and she’d give us coffee
and bread and tins
of salmon and I’d
search the streets for
tobacco and cigarette
butts and sell whatever
I could so we could eat
and drink and we were
loose and young and
now we find ourselves
as grandparents; living
comfortable and
Frieda and the bookshop
long gone and the
Bukowski books long ago
sold for long-forgotten
meals and drugs and
alcohol and broken
windows and rusty
door-handles and
youth now
laying quiet and spent
and longing for the
lazy back-yard of
middle-age.
A RIGHTEOUS OBSTACLE
I had some business to take
care of in the hospital and as
usual made my way to the
nurses station and I knocked
on the door and a guy, maybe
a few years older than I
opened up the door;
I didn’t recognise him and
I couldn’t see his I.D. badge
as it was hidden beneath
his waistcoat but I knew
he was an outside
visitor from some piss-poor
do-gooder service and I
explained myself and he
appeared awkward and
guarded the office and began
to tell me that he had some
work to do and he began
to point with a limp hand
at some chairs scattered
in the corridor opposite
the office where I could sit
and wait and as he gestured
I said loudly “Pratt” and
then I slowly turned and
walked away and found
somebody helpful;
the following day I
learnt that the guy was
a hospital Chaplin and
he had been rather
shaken and unsettled by
my apparently menacing
appearance and attitude
and I thought, fuck me,
I had been soft on
the pompous old bastard
and next time, maybe,
I’ll do the right thing and
I’ll clench my mouth
and go find some place to
smoke a cigarette and
pray silently for my
treacherous soul.
THAT MORNING; EVERY MORNING
One morning
when he was
6 years old
he woke up to
find his 4 year
old sister lying on
the floor beside
his bed;
she was still, cold,
dead
and he couldn’t
wake her up and he
didn’t understand;
he went to find his
other younger
3 years old sister
and he found her
in bed, she was
still, cold, dead
and he couldn’t
wake her up and
he didn’t understand
and he began to
scream for his mama
but she didn’t come,
she wasn’t there, he was
alone and he couldn’t
understand and he began
to cry;
several hours later
the police found him
alone and crying and
not understanding why
he couldn’t wake up
his little sisters and why
his mama wasn’t
there to cuddle him
and later he
understood that his
mama had murdered
his sisters and that
she had been unwell
and had been taken
to a locked hospital
and he couldn’t
understand why his
mama had killed his
sisters and spared him
and
40 years later he still
doesn’t understand and
he lives his life and
he is humble, truthful
and a sensitive soul
and he lives his life
one
moment at a time
and what
scares
and
warms
him
simultaneously,
is waking up
not knowing what
awaits in the world
as he
opens
his
eyes.
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