Never Getting to Pensacola

I left work one evening
and stopped to get gas.
while I was pumping gas,
I observed a man wearing
a fedora, leather jacket,
and pajama pants trying to
get a ride by hitchhiking.
I saw what looked like a
puppy on his shoulder.
then I noticed the red cone,
beak, and feathers.

I thought, this fucker
will never get a ride
with a goddamned live
chicken on his shoulder.
I lost sight of him

and walked inside to
buy an espresso beverage.
upon exiting,
I heard a voice say,
“hey my man, can I
put gas in your truck?
I’m trying to get close
to Pensacola.”
I’m sure he noticed the 5
on my tag denoting that
I lived across the bay
in that general direction.
I looked at the man.
I looked up at his chicken,
then back at him and said,
“I’m sorry, I’m not going that way.”
then,
I got in my truck
and went that way.

Could Have Been

Everything looks nicer
from the outside,
doesn’t it?
Coloured pillows
and layers of blankets,
warmer than it really is.

Inside, underneath
things are covered
in who we could
have been.

Everything looks pretty
from the outside,
doesn’t it?
Coloured lips
and layers of friendship,
colder than it could
have been.

She tells me this is dirty:
the lack of space, the way I taste,
the clothes we forgot to wash
while trying to wash
away our sins.

There’s never enough time
or length between
the last mistake
and that’s why
you sleep next to me
and not with me
anymore.

No Place To Be, By Tohm Bakelas
Holy&Intoxicated Publications

Treading within the shadows of suburban tarmac, into a vanishing point that disappears upon each realisation that, there is No Place To Be. Tohm Bakelas finds a strange and confusing state between hope and isolation, where optimism decays in the perception of itself as a driving force to survive. A perception that is ever-present in our dead-end society.

— Lucy Wilkinson: editor/publisher of Death of Workers Whilst Building Skyscrapers Press

$5:00 / £5:00 / €5:00

Sales and inquiries:
johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

Bakelas finds the poems hiding in the quotidian, either skinning them alive to get to their core – or by picking them up and cradling them with a distinct tenderness. Although he maintains a strong voice when he hands these poems over to us, Bakelas does so in a way that takes a step back – allowing us to truly examine something and in turn even ourselves. No Place To Be acts as a taster menu for anyone not yet familiar with Bakelas work, or a much needed fix for anyone that’s been left craving for more.

— Gwil James Thomas: poet, writer, and inept musician.

Pussy

some men will do
almost anything
for a fine piece of pussy.

some men like legs,
and would crawl through
shit stained barbed wire
if given the chance.
just to gaze at long legs
and shapely calves in
high heels.

other men like ass,
I am one of those men.
I like my asses round and
sculpted and jiggly when
spanked. I like something
to grab and keep grabbing.
now I wouldn’t get in the
ring with Canelo for 12
rounds just for a great ass,
but I would and do other
small things like
make slick jokes and
cook dinner once in a while
or wash the dishes etc.

now some men they like
a big jiggly pair of tits.
bouncing pillows,
pink nipples,
cleavage.
and these men may be
the most hungry,
they would sniff n lick a
homeless fellas balls
to cop a feel,
or shove a hedgehog
up their ass
just to have one breast
in their mouth
let alone two.

there are many other
things men like about
women’s bodies. their
faces, stomach, feet,
eyes, lips.

and some men let the
pursuit of women consume
their lives. some men
have a thirst that is
unquenchable and they
go through women like
Messi dribbling through
the lines.

all in all. it’s an elemental
tangle. two bodies, two hearts
one cock, 3 major holes to
insert into.

endless bodies. countless
women. boundless
opportunity.

it’s all quite a rush
to be honest
to talk about
to think about
to do.

criminal, an occupation

a discreet kiss
on a sunday
morning

a cup of coffee
paper at your
feet

two birds battling
the wind outside
the window

enjoy the quiet

chaos is only a
few hours away

and once that
first drop of
sweat races
down your
back

you’ll always
be looking for
whatever is
chasing you

Questions

did you see the star die inside
when the vein crushed
and there was nowhere to push?
did you make a wish?
did you hear the applause
of the dripping blood?
Did you know that suicide
is a work of art,
an expression of resistance,
and your tragic ending
was the begining of mine?
Did you know that when we fucked
I felt every bone shake and shiver
and I wanted to tear off your skin
to see how your insides work?
I am not sure if you really existed
or if you’re just a fantasy
of my induced deliriums,
but why couldn’t you come save me
from the things you put me on,
the needles,
the pipes,
the plastic bags,
the bloody steering wheels,
rusty razors and stolen cars?
Wasn’t it love?
Will I ever be brave enough
for freedom

In The Barrel of a Beautiful Wave,
By Gwil James Thomas
Holy&Intoxicated Publications

Gwil James Thomas is a poet, novelist and inept musician originally from Bristol, England. His written work can be found widely in print and also online. He is the author of the poetry chapbooks: Gwil Vs Machine (Paper & Ink), Hidden Icons & Secret Menus (Analog Submission Press), Romance, Renegades & Riots – W/John D Robinson (Analog Submission Press) and Writing Beer, Drinking Poetry (Concrete Meat Press). Other work can be found widely in print and also online. He was also once a member of the Spanish/British band Irreparables (Nominal Records). He currently lives in San Sebastián, Northern Spain.

$5:00 / £5:00 / €5:00

Sales and inquiries:
johndrobinson@yahoo.co.uk

“Gwil shoots from the hip and pours out barrels of heart onto each page of this new collection. His unique and nuanced perspective will make you want to read each poem again and again. Gwil’s writing continues to get stronger and stronger and this is another great addition to what is becoming a fantastic bibliography of work.”

— Martin Appleby, Editor of Paper & Ink Literary Zine

Doomed

When I spend nights in,
reading celebrity news,
am I avoidant or
the smartest girl
alive.

World news
is killing us all,
obviously.
Sneaky murder,
weird ideals.

Thank you, internet.
Now I know in real time
that all the weed
won’t ever cure me,
nor will food,
beer, girls, or
even lovely
money.

We are doomed.
Life is futile,
and beautiful people
are even sadder
than the mentally ill
on long-haul flights.

What a nuisance
we have to bother
staying sane,
staying sober.

Instead
I will map out
playgrounds in my head
where everyone is team Kayne

As Much as We Are Able

I wanted a poem to carry me
Thus far
I have only been hurled
By every sentence I could not give full birth to

My friend has cancer
And has lost her sight
Lives alone in a cold trailer
Hasn’t spoken to her son in years 

I can’t make that okay 

I wanted a poem to carry her
But she is only thrown
Closer
Every day
To her end

I can’t make sense of it
Why we’re always given more
Than a poem (we) can carry 

Why nothing makes anything okay
Why We’re just thrown
Every day into our lives
Like a bullet with no one’s name on it

We carry as much as we are able
And we are not able to carry
Very much at all. 

Coffeehouse Romance

I see you,
alone,
reading Raymond Carver
at a table for two.
Straight, black hair—
lightly greased—
falling in your face.
You brush it away,
saving a page
with your right thumb,
I notice
the smoothness
of your hands,
the fullness
of your fingers.
Your eyes
are lost in ugly life—
I think they are brown.
The angles
and curves
of your face
sing
in their own silent poetry.
You turn a page.
I long
to dip my face
into your cupped hands
and drink in
the smell of you.
To taste the sweat of your palms.
To kiss the fingertips
that have touched
the sum of your parts.
You catch my eye
so I look away.
You keep reading.
I wonder—
for a moment—
what it’s like
to be that chair.
You close your book
and get up to leave.
Passing me by—
warm—
smelling
of faded cologne
and sweaty jeans,
I devour you
at every inhale.
You leave me,
unaware
that for a moment
you
were everything
that mattered—
my cathedral—
and with the ghosts of fingerprints
lingering upon my tongue.

 

(Originally published at Cajun Mutt Press)