I stumble through
luminescences of rain:
awake at dawn, sweetened
with salt,
palms crusted like
my knees,
whiter than white. when
river redgum roots snake
and tickle my
unsandaled toes, I gasp
apologies and soak the sludge
with my own blood.
moth-haunted and fly-
haloed like some pale
swamp-goddess of
degenerate creation,
I spit dew from my
rosebud mouth and curse
them more for taking the canoe
than what they
(falsely)
thought was my
virginity.
I’m having a rare bull session
with some old buddies
and her name comes up—
“Dude! You too?”
Yep. Seems we all knew her.
Intimately.
Of course Reno was
a much smaller town, then.
If a girl got around enough
she could really make a name for herself.
God knows I tried to make one for myself.
It’s how we became semi-famous
before social media.
Maybe somewhere, a group of women
sits down over margaritas, and
one mentions this dude she used to
know….and another says, “I remember
that guy! All he did was talk about
his ex…then he got too drunk to fuck
me, and passed out on my couch!”
Then a third chimes in, and says
“I was seeing him for awhile, but
he left me for some bar skank.
She was married, too. I wonder how
THAT worked out.” and they all
laugh. As they should.
Perforated by Sirens is a poetic collaboration between two friends written during the height of the 2020 coronavirus pandemic. The book manages to fuse two distinct perspectives, with Mark being in Bristol, England and Danny being in Bergamo, Italy. Bergamo suffered one of the highest pandemic casualty rates in the world.
A5 saddle stitched chapbook. Lovingly handmade, hand stamped, and hand numbered. Limited to 25 copies. Printed on an old Canon laser printer we found abandoned at a dump site.
Although alone
on Thanksgiving,
I still like
to celebrate
the holiday.
I have
some turkey,
preferably wild,
poured in a glass
over ice
with a splash
of coke.
And I keep
going back
for another
helping.
Here I kneel
in deference,
simple silence,
a wordless prayer,
an act of devotion.
In gentle rhythm,
head rocked forward,
eyelids closed,
hands hold legs
to steady stance.
Touch is tantamount
to taste in grace.
I asked you to stand,
tell me your fear,
read me words.
Stroke auditory buds,
as blood pounding,
in matching pulse,
I slide my thumb
inside your ass.
“…a scurvy-looking cove sitting with a couple of doxies,”
I read in a detective novel set in 1719,
digging the eighteenth century patois,
fiction my escape
from the sledgehammer of horror
of the year in which I live, 301 later.
A sketchy-looking dude sitting with a couple of hoes.
I look up from the novel
at the television screen,
where the current president sits
with his daughter and his wife,
a bloated, scowling man
with fake-blond hair,
candidate for a stroke,
his cosmetically-enhanced companions
all counterfeit curves and color.
I turn back to my novel,
to the eighteenth century,
not so different
from today, I concede.
Spain had this strange concept,
part exciting,
part frightening
he dragged me to a cage, a trap
me mouse, him cat.
Spain toyed me in the pub
a finger in my shorts
trying to snoop my hole
my hand grabbing his mole.
The lead drag screamed at us
s/he was supposed to be the queen
their slick make up leaked from their eyes
s/he scared us and we fled.
The aftermaths of this was weird
I had no place to go
he had no bed to share
both broke
a hotel room was nay.
The tube became shelter
we kissed and hugged and rubbed
on the seat of an empty train.
Then,
Spain stopped at Stockwell
I had to go further, alone,
down south,
soothing my frustration.
Soon I would leave London
to reach Southampton.
After she’s made dinner
after they drink and fight
have sex and watch
the television
after he goes to bed
she stays up and drinks
tequila and dances
alone to old 45s
Dusty Springfield
Patsy Cline
The Shangri-las
and for a few hours
she forgets about
the debt
and the doubt
the things he said
the things she said
and where it’s all
surely headed
she gets lost
in old songs
and for a while lives
in the music that sings
of other times
when the world
was different
when she said
pretty things
to pretty people
and tomorrow wasn’t
always something to dread
she has to be at work
in 5 hours and she
says just one more
shot and turns
the record
over.
Horror Sleaze Trash proudly presents the poems of John D Robinson.
“These are survivor poems, battle scarred verse that hits the soul and assaults the frontal lobe. Here is a poet who has lived several lives and emerged on the other side intact.”
—Joseph Ridgwell, author of Burrito Deluxe
“This book is not decorative art. This book is not the exercise of the commercial artisan. This book is stripped of 21st century consumer bullshit. This book is a way in to what matters. Get ready. It is going to hurt. And you will love it.”
—Henry Stanton, UnCollected Press
your lips tasted
like danger
like death was
just around the
next corner
your tongue
danced in my
mouth like i
was the
unexpecting
victim
it was a cigarette
on the front porch
the sad reminder
that suicide lovers
will never get a
storybook ending
so many years ago
now we’re flirting
with death while
burning every damn
bridge along the way
sometimes sorrow
is all we can get
by with
like any fucking
fool
we’ll turn it into
something that
someone will
think of as
art
