The Sewing Circle

There was a three-story house in the old town burg
sewing machines in the windows
none of them worked
Men of all types rolled up the stairs
Madame Lombard’s blind whorehouse
all the ladies were blind
white, black, yellow
mostly young, very young girls
some older ladies who had no place to go
women the wind forgot
forgotten by the sea
forgotten by the burning sun

The blind ladies in waiting
egg timers by the nightstand
ring ring your hour’s up pay up

Sightless girls 
smelling and hearing
sweaty fat men
grunting and belching
putting it in drunk and bleary
skinny nervous men
apologizing, cursing, sometimes crying
“No, you can’t kiss me”
this one’s really small
this one’s way too big
small and thick with the bullfrog blues
men without a past
men without a future 
all dancing a swirly little dance
until the big bad wolf
burned their house in  

Barbiegore 

Venous Barbies bleed in hot pink as do
the Kens, for dolls with cute sadistic kinks —
or Serial Stacies, little sisters you 
didn’t know were the bad seeds, who wink
at polyvinyl chloride able to bleed 
out for their pleasure next to the rocket 
ship swing sets.  Blonde braids, pink bows, evil deeds
without human regrets, knives in pockets,
tap shoes on the tiniest feet announce 
an arrival but exit discreet after 
the final heart beat, pink brain matter bounces 
off rosy linoleum floors.  Laughter 
eluding the detectives of Barbiecore — 
the aesthetic that slays is Barbiegore.

To My Aborted Fetus

I was a child, myself,
but I knew enough
to choose
not to give you life
not to bring you into a world
that would abuse you like I was abused,
a place where I wouldn’t be able to feed you, or
where the food is poisoned
as is the water
and the air there is to breathe.
On top of all that
I might not have been able to keep you safe
at your schools
where every day of learning
means knowing how to barricade
the door to your classroom
and count up to a hundred while you
wait for the time
you’ll watch your classmates die
you’ll watch yourself die
from over a hundred bullets
from the guns that are loved more
than children
I promise you, it’s not a consolation
to know that
you might be used to death
that you could cope
because every day
you’d be forced to watch the world die
from greed and pollution and environmental destruction
and the animals who are extinct by the 
time you turn the page on them
in your picture book
it’s not a life I want to live
even with all my greed
but somehow I keep going
and the only state of grace I have
in this mad, mad world
is that you aren’t here 
to witness my heartbreak
at seeing you die
a thousand small deaths every day.

ON THE WAY UP

When I last saw him
he told me he was
climbing to the stars,
that he was living the
dream, that paradise
was in every breath
and that love could
never be defined
but he was ascending 
a stairwell toward a
higher understanding
of being
and he was found
dead in his lonely 
room,
with lonely photographs
and lonely possessions
and lonely memories,
just like the breeze,
belonging to no one
but touching us all
even
just for that pure 
instant disappearing 
moment of
truth.

***

From: Everyday, Somewhere, Hickathrift Press

One Year After the Break Up at the No AC Motel

The incandescent bulb hung on its crooked cord and choked the room 
with its static emission of dim yellow light when you 
finally uttered, “This is a losing battle.”
Timidly I conceded, “This is a lost battle.”

You said I’m losing you and I replied that I already lost you
as the walls succumbed to the same pall of pale
that clothes public hospital rooms and morgues.

I would’ve stormed out of that cheap motel room
at the end of the first hour and thirty minutes
but I didn’t want to waste the second half.

Besides, that longest short time ever was on me so I chose to stay 
until we checked out of that detention center together with bowed heads:
a lady and a gentleman furtively spilling apart onto the sidewalk 
that concaves across Pasay Rotonda that late rainy June afternoon.

Tonight, I’m back all alone in the same microwave room
and slouch on the same crumpled bed.
I find my half bottle of beer from last year still at attention
atop the icky mahogany nightstand.
Likewise untouched is this one hundred-peso ash tray: 
a bird’s nest of glass that keeps its unhatched eggs 
of half-buried dried cigarette butts.

The cockroach that zigzagged across the ceiling like an automaton
remains on guard and descends on the lip of my beer bottle 
whose content has long been abandoned by its spirit.
The minute six-legged soldier unmutes and reports 
in an inquiring tone, “Both of you didn’t get naked last time.”

Talk About Poetry

Aw, man, not again.
I don’t wanna
Talk about poetry.
Read it/don’t read it.
Get it/don’t get it.
You don’t need to
Wrap your life around it.
I don’t give a shit how
Iambic your pentameter is
Or if the point was boldly
Blatant or cleverly hidden.
It’s like a piece of art.
It hits you without
The need to dissect it.
You want profound?
Your world moved?
A religious experience?
Get on the highway,
Turn off your headlights,
Drive in the oncoming lane.

Phoebe 

uses the body while it is asleep 
whispering promises she fears it will
not keep to minacious strangers who creep 
in basement dreams.  Offers tiniest pills.
Barters its screams for collectible dolls, 
antique velvet bear who survived shipwreck 
without its young miss who said prayers, lolled 
in waves which gave another rotting speck 
to dead ocean floor.  Scavengers in plaid 
always want more than the embodied 
are able to give.  Is it even bad 
to want to live, to climb on a favored knee 
if it necessitates a throttled neck? 
Tiniest hands are never circumspect.

Line at the club

it was a night like many 
years ago 
out at the club
two or three pills down
out of my goddamn mind
at one point I was talking to
some friends I came with but 
realized they were all just 
strangers staring at me 
like I was insane
sweaty and disoriented
living and loving life
awaiting the next adventure that 
lay ahead amongst the fake smoke
moving neon lights and
pounding beats
then it was seen
I must be hallucinating, I thought
a beautiful blonde in a summer dress
sitting on a stool against the wall
getting fucked by a menagerie of men
her tanned legs up
accepting a multitude of strange cock
her man beside her
a bulky brawn bald type
taking it all in
as she took them all in
petting her head like a cat
as one after another deep-dicked 
her for all patrons to see
at one point the straps
fell from her shoulders
exposing exquisite breasts
someone eventually 
pulled them back up
god forbid tits are out while
a public gangbang is in session
the bald guy had obviously seen enough
he got in on the action himself
pumping his drugged zombie 
mercilessly against the club wall
moments before he came
he pulled out
started jerking vigorously
shoved her head down
as she accepted his viscous offering
when they were leaving
he shook hands and gave
a handful of cash to a bouncer
as they exited
the club lights illuminated
streaks of cum and juices 
running down each of her legs
numerous people obviously 
had a good time that night
but she had more than a blast

36 pages 
Large format (21 x 29.7cm) 
Printed on 100% recycled paper 
First edition of 53
£8.00

£2.00 from every copy sold will be donated to the Ukraine relief fund.

John D Robinson is a UK-based poet. Hundreds of his poems have appeared online and in print. He has published 15 chapbooks and four full collections of his poetry. He has published a novel of fiction and 2 collections of short stories. He is a multiple Push Cart nominee.

BUY IT HERE