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by John D Robinson


Commitment Or Asshole?


“I won’t be making it in

tomorrow morning” I said

“But you’re on the rota

to work tomorrow

morning so you’ve got

to make it in” said my


“I’m not going to be able

to make it tomorrow

morning” I repeated

“You’re on the rota and

why the fuck can’t you

make it in tomorrow


“I’ve got a poetry

reading tonight”

I said

“A what?” he asked


“A poetry reading”

I said again

“A poetry reading? what

is that? what are you?

and how the fuck is

that going to stop you

making it in tomorrow

morning?” he asked

looking puzzled and


“Chances are that I’m

going to be drinking and

living until 4am and I

won’t give a shit about

this place at 8am” I

offered as an honest

plausible reason for

not being able to make

it in as per the rota and

I apologised for this.

The supervisor glared

at me with disbelief and

fury and snarled

“You take off that

uniform, unless you

are going to

return tomorrow


“Okay” I said and took

off the uniform, dropping

the clothes to the floor;

I stood in tee shirt and

boxer shorts before him;

he shook his head

and was about to say

something when I

turned and

walked out of the

office and into the busy

supermarket where I

drew the startled attention

of many curious shoppers;

but it was a bad move; all

for nothing; unbeknown

to me, the reading had

been fucking cancelled.



a line, (a short blue one)




Perhaps in a decade or

so, my 2 granddaughters

may read some of my

poems and stories and

ask their mother with

contorted serious faces;

“Did Papa really act out

all those drug fuelled antics

and all those horrible,


drunken escapades


with ‘those’ kind of


Papa didn’t really do

all ‘those’ kind of things

with ‘those’ kind of

people, did he?, really?

“Well” my daughter

may say to her


“Papa didn’t tell lies;

so I guess he did so”

“URRRRRR, no, not Papa!

he wouldn’t have!”

they may cry in unison

still not believing;


Oh yes he did!



a line, (a short blue one)


For The Better


There are days,

perhaps too many,

when for my own

safety and for

that of others,

that I stay in bed

or at best don’t

leave the house;

but even this

is no guarantee,

like today,

I was sat at the

kitchen table

reading from my

1st edition copy of

Dan Fante’s

‘A gin-pissing-raw meat-

dual carburettor-V8-

son of a bitch from

Los Angeles’

when there came a

knock at the door;

I was expecting nobody;

I put down the book

and barked

“Who the Fuck!”

I opened the door

to 2 silver haired


well dressed persons;

one male

one female;

“Yeah” I said looking

at the  2 of them;

“I’ve some pamphlets

here” the guy said

holding up some

glossy paperwork;



I glared hard at the

guy; fixing his eyes and


“I do”

the silver haired lady let

go a soft nervous laugh;

when I looked over,

she stopped and looked

silently down at her shoes;

“Is that all?” I asked

looking back at the

silver haired guy;

he looked puzzled

frowned and said


I closed the door and

made some espresso

and watched the rain

beginning to fall outside

and then

anxiously waited for

the next asshole to

intrude upon my life.



a line, (a short blue one)


A Really Bad Habit


One time

a time ago

I had a real

shitty habit

that pissed-off

most of my


too drunk

too stoned

too lazy

I’d piss into

indoor plant


in their lounges,



if there was

a plant pot

I’d find it

and piss into it;

it was damn right


and now

I no longer piss

into indoor plant pots

as I’m no longer

invited anywhere


I no longer


my friends;

I still get




and I’m still


but I’ve a little

more decorum

and mostly make

it to the bathroom,

but sometimes;

I piss into the

back yard

beneath a cold

sky, watching the

steam rise

gently into

the freezing air,

beneath the

 grin of god



a line, (a short blue one)


Blood, Shit and Teeth


After shitting blood for

4 days

she suggest that I go

see my GP

and then in the

morning I awoke

with just 1 front tooth,

I had gone to bed

with 2 front

capped - teeth;

the fucker must

have come loose

and I swallowed it

during dream-time;

dentists have always

made me nervous

and that prick

Dr Walter Palmer

didn’t help my


physically it was a

painless procedure


it was crippling

and then after

the GP visit and

the usual GP


“Do you still

smoke and drink

alcohol at very

unhealthy levels

Mr Robinson?

and you have a

daily use of codeine

for pain-relief”

I nod my head

“Yes doctor”

I say with an

awkward mouth;

“We could do some

blood tests”

the doctor says.

“Okay” I whisper

through tight lips and

the gap in my


“You’ve got to slow

down a little, take it

easy for a while”

my doctor tells me

and I think of the

Wantling line

‘I’m a poet

fuck me again’

but I don’t say this,

I don’t say anything

but I nod my head

with a dumb grin

and rise from the

chair to go;

“We’ll send you

an appointment”

the good doctor


“That’s good” I

lisp, closing

the door behind me.



a line, (a blue one)


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