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.

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They should have left me there

They should have left me there
To rot. The dog and I watched tv,
Looked outside the window,
Pretended to be mother and son,
Got bored and found ourselves
Covered in a thick blanket,
Indenting that warm spot
on the mattress.
What they thought a ten-year-old
Girl would do with herself
I do not know.
I might have eaten an entire box
Of chocolate fingers, stollen
A few gulps of wine with my eyes
Glued to the doorknob.
I’ve done it all and revel still
In the taste of liquor.
But I was hopeful then,
That’s the difference.

Blonde Pussy of Nashville

Raised my head
Tried to get out of bed
You nudged my hide
You want another ride?
You turned onto your back
I spread your cheeks
I looked deep inside
I made my dive

Chorus: 

I’m eatin’ the blonde pussy of Nashville
Much tastier than road kill
Your pussy’s so clean, it shines
Amen, it’s dinnertime
Hmm, you’re a young pussy
You sure are juicy
Your pussy is so sweet
it could feed all of Tennessee

I put on a glove and inserted my pinky
You are my Twinkie
Your chocolate’s on my tongue
Hmm, much richer than dung
Your hairs are stuck in my teeth
I’ll never floss, I won’t cheat
Next time, do an enema first
Black tongue, what is worst?

(Chorus) 

Bridge: 

One day your pussy will turn gray
Don’t worry, that’s O.K. 
One day your pussy will turn white
I’ll still eat you every night
One day, if you shave,
I’ll leave you, that’s all I have to say. 
I want your pussy throughout the years.
Say yes, or it’s tears.

(Chorus)

The Clothed Truth

Something bad just happened to me
and I really threw myself into it

It was the day before yesterday
probably a Sunday
the sky remembered to write to the moon
in fairy floss across the sky
like crimson ribbons floating away
wondering why

The moon seemed happy
whistling a tuneless lullaby
to the remembered future
the forgotten past

To me, it all looked rather joyful, hopeful
The sky doing its thing,
hanging out with the contented moon
I walked home, found you there

UNINVITED

I can still hear your pleading prophecy whispering with your déjà vu 
come write with me and be my love and we will all the pleasures prove
try the elixir
suck my blood
I’ll devour your
DISSONANCE

Music will paint our murals
writing will feed our sacraments
fucking will excite the loving hurting healing
PROWLING

Fly your kite into the abyss
WRITE YOUR NAME IN THE MUD

Choose Venus

Pink swirl tattoo
the skin of Venus.
Her arms and heart and legs
open wider
than Nefertiti, Aphrodite and Hera,
those mean girls.  

When my conjured flowers 
need to feed
I boast they are damned 
strong
and impervious to absorb ammonia.
Don’t be afraid. 

My pipe smoke rises
from phoenix fires.
Rain is not made of foolish tears,
desire 
and disaster season this water –
no salt here.  

I churn and flare mighty
like a constant glowing liar,
a hot green house fire.
Venus shows herself
to be the truthful 
God of Love. 

The Saw

Its most common use
is pruning those pesky branches
that encroach upon the house.
Or chopping down the whole tree
if required.

But a saw can also be a musical instrument
Bending and unbending,
an onrush of glissando,
replicates a theremin. 

Another common practice 
with such an implement 
is removing the head of an enemy
whom you’ve drugged 
and bound to a parlor chair.

The instructions saws come with
only mention the first of these applications. 

But there’s no reason that
you shouldn’t wield a saw
to decapitate some guy.
You can even play a tune or two
while you’re doing it.

By the altar

I flung my jacket by the altar
undid my tie my squeezed
arteries freed at last
beneath the cross
and the priest
undid my shoes my swollen feet
gasping and smelling
of sweat and progress
hung over an open shirt
I lift up your skirt
and listen to you shriek
I lift you from the earth
and listen to you squeak
like a small dog in the echo
of the church your mother’s
gaping mouth and that big old hat
she’s had since the seventies
at a horse show looking gawky
looking sly in a moment she’ll prepare
her speech she’ll prepare to
reduce you to ashes!
her index finger jittering mid-air
her wobbly skin in a convulsive tremor

hey baby
what do you say we place our cards
on the table and say
I do.

Deb

I keep thinking of her,
just one of many who ghosted me,
to use the 21^st century parlance.

I keep thinking of her,
so-so looking,
incredibly stupid,
nice thighs in the pictures,
sturdy fleshy body.
That’s the way I thought about her –
like chicken parts,
something I wanted to tear into
just because I was famished.
I imagine the things I would do to her
if I was confident and there were no consequences:
things I would do with my hands
and with not-my-hands.
Rude things I would do
while she told me she didn’t like it
but secretly did like it.

I keep thinking of her.
Among all the ghost-wreckage,
much of it unremembered,
for some reason it’s Deb
that keeps crossing into my mind
while I’m lying here.
It’s bestial. 
I’m a real animal
and she’s still pretty stupid
but she wants me now
because she knows what I’m for
and I know what she’s for,
so it doesn’t matter how dumb
or otherwise useless she is
and I get to getting to it;
putting her to use.
Really getting it done.