Poems
by John D Robinson

 

 

The Poetry-Whore

 

am a poetry-whore,

in fact, I generally offer

myself for free,

occasionally I’ll hustle

for a little cash

but mostly I give myself

away for nothing in

monetary terms:

sometimes I am

approached to contribute

to a publishing  project

for no fee,

I knew early on that poetry

wouldn’t make me wealthy

but rather a happy whore who

is satisfied and ecstatic to

see my work in print or

online, an honest cut-throat

poetry-whore, a don’t fuck-

about whore and I am okay

with this,

I love being a poetry-whore,

get in touch………

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing To Me

 

‘It meant nothing to me, they

paid me, to fuck me or I’d

blow them,

 I never ever swallowed,

I masturbated with sex-

toys and my fingers and

faked orgasm every time and

the poor desperate, horny

fucks felt they were great

lovers, but I felt nothing,

cold, distant, neutral, I felt

nothing but the cash in

my hands to buy another

bag or bottle, that’s what

matters, getting loaded,

numbed from this fucking

nightmare life of pain’ she

told me;

she was early 30’s,

Mediterranean attractive,

pretty and abandoned:

she was generous and

kindly in her nature and

would give money to those

who asked her, those who, in

some way depended on her,

so she sold herself, her

heart, her soul and if she

ever had any dreams or

ambitions she knew they’d

never happen, so life, her

life, was aimless, without

a future beckoning her and

she overdosed on heroin

and cocaine: her dead body

was discovered in an

abandoned building:

I attended her cremation,

a handful of mourners,

there is no failure here,

not of hers, but a tragedy

that didn’t want to be

rescued by the world

that had failed her.

 

 

 

 

 

For J.T.

 

We were close for a while, we

were cousins, he was a few years

older and he would captivate me

with his mischievousness and

daring and he was always fucking

smiling a genuine smile in

those days: as years passed, we’d

meet randomly and would always

stop and try and converse, no

matter how intoxicated we were:

I’d seen him collapse, vomiting

at 10am in a public park, see him

walk around in pissed pants and

he died alone in a cheap bare

room without love and I can

see him now and not the tragedy

of his time here but as a friend

whose smile was once electric

and I hope it illuminated his

darkest and painful moments.

 

 

 

 

 

The Commonplace

 

No more reaction than a

blink of an eye, like

something that is

commonplace, something

that doesn’t count for

too much, like, it’s

no surprise it’s

happening again,

like a buzzing bee or

a crawling ant or a

drop of rain, it’s all

the same, seen it before,

it’s all too familiar,

routine.

that’s how it felt when I

told her of my

forthcoming chapbook

and I knew it was useless

to try and explain how god

damn fortunate I am

for this to be happening,

how blessed and excited

I feel, so I didn’t bother,

I kept my mouth shut as I

filled my glass in a

lonesome celebration.

 

 

 

 

 

Pardon Me

 

I have lost 100% hearing in

my right ear and have about

60% in the left, it isn’t

painful, just fucking

frustrating and I’m not

too sure if this will be

permanent : I spend a lot

of my waking hours

listening to classical music

and cannot imagine life

not being able to hear

fuck-all,

but shit, Beethoven was

totally deaf by the age of

41 and continued composing

until his death 15 years

later so what the fuck

am I whinging about.

 

 

 

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