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Five Poems
by John D Robinson





The Bum’s Dispersed



I fucking hate it when I

feel the urge to write but

find it hard to reach out

and grab that something

that will create a poem:

I know it’s there,

somewhere within

like when I wouldn’t

back-down although I

knew I’d be beaten,

something inside, it

wasn’t pride it was the

moment itself,

daring and taunting;

how it ended wasn’t

important, but he,

drunker than I,

collapsed as he tried

to throw a punch my

way: he hit the concrete

hard and the crowd

of bums dispersed:

I looked down, his

head was bleeding

but he was breathing

and needed help: it

took some hassling of

passer-bys before an

ambulance was called

and I left the scene,

watching from a


hoping he’d be okay

and thankful I

hadn’t had my ass

kicked to hell

and back again.




a line, (a short blue one)



The Same


‘Mr Robinson, she died,

literally, 5 minutes ago,

I’m sorry’ the nurse said:

I could see that she meant


‘Oh, okay,  can I see her’

 I asked, my eyes

watering a little:

‘Yes, of course’ she said:

I stepped into the room,

closed the door,

we were alone together

again, just like it had

always been but this was

a different being together

 and being alone and a few

weeks later, her sister and

I were the only attendee’s

at her eco friendly burial

in some woodland: the

rain fell harsh and

cold and relentless as

she was lowered in her

cardboard casket into

the flooded hole of

watery eternity, never to

talk of Marlboro smokes,

of Kerouac and

California, never to curse

again the shallowness

of this life,

‘be a king or slum

dweller, it’s all the


she’d say.




a line, (a short blue one)



The Hollow People



A large proportion of my work

is listening to people, sometimes

it can be captivating and

interesting, funny or serious and

heart breaking but mostly the

talk is mostly trivial, boring,

repetitive, an endless flow of

irrelevant bullshit: but I

listen. I’m paid to listen, to

hear words that are the lives

of the fucked-up and lonely,

to the lost and ‘don’t give a

shit’ to the help me, save me,

the victim, the scared and

hollow people:

and I am each and

everyone one of them, I

hear and speak their

language, know of their

needs and weakness’s,

I have come through it and

now hold the hands of

those who didn’t.




a line, (a short blue one)



The Excercise



‘I wasn’t going quietly’ he told me,

a big built ex-martial arts champion:

‘there were 4 squad cars, 12 police

officers and that didn’t worry me

but I could see that it worried them:

but they were devious, I thought it

would be un-armed combat, but it

wasn’t: some officers were armed

and the first opportunity they

tasered me again and again, until I

was on the floor writhing around,

helpless and hurting: the road had

been cordoned off and small t.v.

crews were there and my mother

was standing with the police and

she was crying, a few of my friends

were there also amongst a

growing crowd: after a 4 hour

stand-off, it was all over, all

because I made a dumb-ass

call to the cop station telling

them that I had some explosives

and was going to blow my own

ass to kingdom-come:

I didn’t think they’d take me

seriously, I mean no one

ever listens to me: are you

listening to me man?’

he asked:

‘I am’ I said

as he looked out into a

lifeless exercise yard.




a line, (a short blue one)



Much More



I felt something for her,

maybe a love, lust and

illusion: I knew that she

was going to die soon,

her skin yellow and her

body bloated and she

looked scared and scary

and I kept away and

one time she showed up

at my place: I was trying

to keep clean but gave

this up when I answered

the door to her: she came

in and we shared a

couple of joints: I could

feel something surging

within me, but she

wasn’t good and I let go

and we drank a couple

of beers and both of us

were thinking that this

would be our last


and it was

but I made her


but we could have

made so much





a line, (a blue one)


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