The Gold-Mine

‘Her pussy is a gold-mine,
her fingertips are velvet
flowers’ what is that
bullshit!’ she said ‘What
the fuck does that mean?
gold-mine pussy?
velvet fingertips?
she said after reading a
poem that I had
dedicated to her, I
didn’t know what to
say and then she
started laughing, I
looked on feeling
dumb and foolish,
after a few moments
she moved in closer,
‘Thank you’ she said
and then ‘That’s nice,
the gold-mine is all
yours’ she said,
her velvet fingertips
clutching between
her legs.

Brain Drain

“It was like being in hell -the stage version.”
Marianne Faithful

She wants to whistle
the mad chords of
‘All Along the Watchtower’
but the tune sticks
to the gummed edges
of her cracked teeth
broken by the fist
of a male nurse
who caught her sneaking
a stash of blow onto
the closed ward of
an enforced, involuntary
detox, “Getting clean is
easy,” she says, ‘All you
need is ten blankets and
a rubber room to freak in,
the first seven days
of the shakes.” Staying
clean is the hard work,
especially with no known
reason not to live the life
of a Honky Tonk Angel
hooked on the smoke,
the pills and juice that
gives your singing voice
all that character none
of the others have.

Every Roach Washes Ashore

hell bent
aching tooth
of the city.
every roach
washes ashore.
summer sleeps
like a fly
on its belly.

a whore
is bottomless
and picking
at her vagina.
a store keeper
cocks his shotgun.
pigeons scatter
atop project buildings.
the old lady
is swinging
her tits again.

the world
is numb,
once more,
as some kid
pulls into
his grave.

The Night One

He dreams of her beauty,
she dreams of her sacred duty.

He dreams of love,
she dreams of blood.
He dreams of loving her,
she dreams of eating her
fill of him.

He dreams of romance and knowing,
of nudity and showing,
what he can do for her, to her, with her,
and inside her.
Of impregnating . . . her,
of his child growing inside of her,
as she pouts with pleasure
and,
smiles at his apologies for making
her fat for a while.

She dreams of ripping her claws through his belly,
of pulping his guts into jelly.
Of laying her eggs inside him,
while he begs her to kill him
before they hatch and kill him anyway.
The taste of his bloody flesh on her tongue,
while her feathery blue wings beat
and her lips form a song,
a melody to Death and destruction.

He dreams of happiness,
but she dreams of sadness,
madness,
deadness,
darkness . . . of the void beyond all things,
where the Forgotten Ones dream.

He dreams of kissing
her,
Of loving and missing
her.
She dreams of pissing
her
poison into his veins,
of driving him insane,
with the pain of his impossible desire,
for the unholy and the profane.

Born in 1963, John D Robinson is a UK poet. Hundreds of his poems have appeared online and in print. He has published several chapbooks of his poetry and 3 full collections. His work has appeared in such publications as Raw Art Review, Rusty Truck, Misfits Magazine, Poetic Diversity, Hobo Camp Review, Eunoia Review, Tuck Magazine, Poems-For-All, and The Sunflower Collective, to name a few. His latest collections include Hang In There (Uncollected Press), A Hash Smoking, Codeine Swallowing, Wine Drinking Son Of A Bitch (Alien Buddha Press), and The Sounds of Samsara.

Publishing February 15th

PREORDER HERE

Hunger: A Confession

We were looking for stolen cocaine
at the time
I was living out of my car
three months
eating once a day
I needed a job
we went to the dilapidated house
waving unloaded guns
the acquaintance who would soon be my friend
used his fists like hammers
the guy and his girl
kept pleading
kept denying
until something snapped
as the middle-class kid
in the hoodie and bling
pretending to be gangster
clean, well fed and smooth
bellowed and shrieked
tears streaming down his face
a swift kick from steel toes behind his knee
buckled and broken
I sat next to him
a sinister Buddha
removing my mask
he started talking
knowing what it meant
I ate well, that day

Leper’s Head

She asks if you’ve
got a light and you
say that you do as
she leans in close
almost touching your
hands with her face,
looks up at you
as you strike a match,
cup the flame protection
from sudden breezes
inside this three sided
bus shelter box, snow
outside impelled by
the wind on Central Avenue;
as she inhales her
eyes meet yours,
the smoke snaking
from her nose as she
whispers, “I like a man
who can light a girl’s
fire.” Leans closer still,
cigarette forgotten for
the moment, says,
“I can tell you’re a man
who likes lighting girl’s
fires. How would you
really like to light mine?”
opening the top buttons
of her coat revealing
a see-through blouse,
breasts, “How would
you like to come
inside with me?
All the way inside.”
She seems like some
thing left over from
a dream, a distant
memory so vivid
and distinct you almost
forget to notice the
arrival of your bus.

in slutty romance novels

she could barely
muster a whisper

her love was never
strong enough to
illicit the kind of
passion you read
about in slutty
romance novels

i always blamed
myself

in her final breaths,
she forgave me

i asked for what

everything

i chuckled

i guess that covers
most of it

whatever resembles prayer anymore

she’s the last dream
i ever want to have

the answers to whatever
resembles prayer anymore

the woman with her neon
soul breaking down this
wall that’s been built
for years now

i doubt i ever get
to taste her

walk hand in hand on
some tropical beach

as the sun sets on the
latest tragedy