Lube Tube

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.

Old 45s

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

BUY A COPY OR DOWNLOAD HERE

suicide lovers

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

Towhead 

I wasn’t drunk yet 
and I went between the trees 
where I always go 
to take a piss 
I was looking at nothing 
thinking nothing 
and letting the piss  
take care of itself 
when I heard, “Hey!” 

Beneath the canopy 
of low branches 
was a little boy, maybe 4, 
with a Tonka truck 
loaded with a pinecone 
and I knew  
I was fucked 
because he had piss 
on his towhead 

“Oh shit,” I said 
and I backed out of there 
The dad was behind me 
“Did you see..?” he asked
My hands were in the 
“Who? Me?” configuration 
and I was distraught 

The little boy came out 
of the woods 
and he said, 
“He peed on me.” 

“I didn’t mean to,”
I said, “but I did.” 
and I sat on a stump 
and waited for  
the police to come 
and sort it out 

What should I have done? 
Lied? What should I have said? 
There was nothing I could do 
to make it right 

It’s like so much these days 
the facts speak 
for themselves 
but they don’t always
tell the whole story.

Outlaw Wanderer’s Last Words

After a long ride
While the snow is falling
And your hands are hurting
Broken feet and legs
You tired and godless

After all the icy rivers
The bears in the middle of the wood 
Screams of Indians claiming their lands
Rattlesnakes and wolves
You scared and alone

After all the people you lost
False friends made in saloons
Moans of women who won’t remember your name
Gamblers and brothers
You betrayed and lonely

After all this great mess
The clouds will dance away from the moon

Bright stars to follow for the promised land
Gold and water
You blessed and holy

The moment when the tear falls
Life and its deep meaning
Before your very eyes

Suddenly, the truth

How To Write Poetry

Crucified, Jesus
spoke the world’s
most poetic line:
“τετέλεσται”.

Heleva, the second:
“There is no poetry in that.”

Nail yourself 
to a cross built
from other dead girlfriends
and their suicide boyfriends
(preferably in mahogany)
glued together with blood
taken from the heart
with a 14-gauge needle.
Whisper the first thing
that comes to mind,
Aramaic optional.

Wash your hands in urine,
dry them on the stuffed
carcass of an armadillo.
Pink fairy is preferable
but giant will do in a pinch.

Touch someone beautiful,
fall in love, commit
suicide, repeat the cycle
as often as possible.
Don’t forget the urine.

Trim your adverbs.
Trim your gerunds.
And don’t be cynical,
whatever else you do.

free ballad

shooting up raggedy winds
blood crimson frost
faraway nights,
Montreal, she’s there
tender eyed

walking lightstreaks ahead of me
I stumble shiny stockyards into 
morning future fogs
yesteryear tattoos fading on thin dreamrail hearts 

she never liked to walk as a kid
ice creams summers along the Seine

she loves me,
gotta fly

wwoz on, funky as ever
in the midnite boil

a lot of me in her
torn tender grasses, blue moon trances

as lampposts gleam broad street
endless roads await her hot tire rampage tracks

purr, run the engine
it’s all yours baby

White Collar Gods

When you said ride or die 
I didn’t realize you would
expose every pore
every crack
bore your wisdom
into my very core
these kids today–
what do they know
about hovels 
walking to and from the bus
in the rain
snow a foot deep
panting steam as we walked uphill

I learned how to chew
my food slow
while we rode fast
without seatbelts
through Milano
Venice
Turin
into Paris
across to Bordeaux

I longed for this life
but the price was
every last drop
siphoned

You called my name
it echoed into the empty
hull of my body
sometimes it feels good just to pee
when 4 hours sleep is all I get
or the calls
at 2am from India, China, Tokyo, Russia

The endless flights
home is in my head
a hearth with a warm fire in my chest
strong loving arms
I know nothing about
because I raced through the years
with a laptop
cell
extended resume

I missed the turn
for lovers and babies
this womb has dried
to a crackled
dusty
pit

My bank account
is my daily orgasm
after 8pm you can find me
slugging a flawless martini
that’s taken years of perfecting
with Dolin Vermouth

I cradle the bottle

PTSD

PTSD is an unfinished
symphony played
on the screams of
wounded Marines
and the cries of
Afghan children

The percussion
is a helicopter
the woodwinds
are all wound vacs
it’s free to come in
and listen but it will
cost you everything
if you ever hope
to leave

PTSD is the space
between my wife
and me in bed

The space she fills
with pillows
blankets
and two dogs

The one I fill
with sweaty sheets
fear and the desire
to once again
be the man
she married

PTSD is the look
on my pharmacist’s
face when I don’t
want my anxiety
medication

It is the note
my mother sent
asking me when
will I get over
all of this

And it is the taste
of vomit
in my mouth
when anyone
thanks me for
my service