Four Poems by John D. Robinson

ANOTHER 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.

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