8/26/2016 0 Comments Four Poems by John D. RobinsonANOTHER TO THE RANKS Never particularly known as friends or enemies but whenever trouble happened he and I would always be around and involved in someway and we met today nearly 4 decades since those days and he is thin, grey haired and hunched a little and he tells me right off he drinks too much and his wife left him because of the bottle and that he lives alone now but he still works regularly as a decorator and he passes out every night before 8pm and what the fuck he drinks he didn’t say but he seemed almost pleased to tell of his alcoholism and of the failures it had brought him; it was like he was talking of something that he had been awarded for an outstanding contribution to something special, and maybe he was. THIS POETRY BUSINESS “Okay, so what is it? that some poems of yours have appeared in a literary publication? what does that mean? what does it do for you? so fucking what! who gives a shit? blow it up my ass! the world doesn’t know or notice shit like that, it’s far too busy! and what’s the point of it all?” ‘I don’t know’ I answered. AT THE FUNERAL “I’ve started to read your book and what an introduction by someone like that guy from Brooklyn” “John Grochalski” I say “Yeah’ my mother says “the poems, they’re personal poems and all those things you did, I never knew you did such things” “You do now” I say “It was a nice service wasn’t it?” my mother says I nod my head as we moved away from the crematorium and the sullen people dressed in black. IN OUR 20's: A DRUNKEN EARLY EVENING I would guess that she had her reasons for her actions; the heavy glass ashtray thrown in the semi-darkness was a quality throw and opened up a deep gash across the bridge of my nose; I picked up the nearest object, a cauliflower, and threw it towards the screaming and missed the target miserably and I felt the warm blood streaming onto my lips and down my chin and I began laughing; she moved and switched on a light and began crying and apologising as she looked at my face and then behind her at the shattered cauliflower upon the floor and then she knelt down and embraced me, kissing my bloodied face, diluting the red with her tears. Bio: John D Robinson was born in 63 in East Sussex, UK; his work has appeared widely in the small press and online literary publications; including Rusty Truck; Rats Ass Review; Red Fez; Bareback Lit; Dead Snakes; The Kitchen Poet, Underground Books; Pulsar; Poet&Geek; The Commonline Journal; The Chicago Record; Mad Swirl; The Clockwise Cat; Poetic Diversity; Your One Phone Call: Ink Sweat & Tears; Horror Sleaze and Trash; Poetry Super Highway; Zombie Logic Review; Opal Publishing; Hastings Online Times; Bold Monkeys; Napalm and Novocain; The Legendary; Yellow Mama; Winamop.com; The Beatnik Cowboy; Outsider Poetry; Revolution John; BoySlut; The Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine; In Between Hangovers; Eunoia Review. Locust Magazine; Hobo Camp Review; Message In A Bottle; and poems appearing in; The Sentinel Literary Quarterly; Cavalcade of Stars; Degenerate Literature; He is a contributing poet to the 2016 48th Street Press Broadside Series; His latest collection ‘When You Hear The Bell, There’s Nowhere To Hide’ (Holy&intoxicated Publications) carries an introduction by poet and novelist John Grochalski. He is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats, 1 dog and he likes to drink wine whilst listening to quietness.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
April 2024
Categories |