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by John D Robinson




Read This


I died today

and yesterday

and every fucking day

for the past

fifty nine years

and so have you

and no one has

noticed or cared,

but it’s natural,

it’s life,

I lived today

as you who

read this,


we’re always


in-between life

and death,








a line, (a short blue one)



All About You


This poem is about you,

that is,

how I know you.

I was familiar with the

gossip and the bullshit

surrounding you,

but, after our

first meeting I knew

for shit sure it was

bollocks, ugly lies:

in an indescribable

way, like nothing

before in my life,

I fell in love with you,

not sexually/physically

or romantically or

lustfully or out of

pity but your zest

for life, no matter humble

or repulsive,

was insatiable,

you loved all of life,

you would see things

in others that no one

else could see or feel,

this poem is all about you,

a decade after you left us

to go to a place, where

you had been so close to,

so many times, before.




a line, (a short blue one)





Was anorexic and alcoholic,

she was half my age


we had a lot of shit in common,

aside from being drunkards,

literature and painting

were major connections:

she would paint these darkly

beautiful hauntingly distorted

faces in torment:

she had very few friends and

she would cut her arms and

legs with razor blades and call

the emergency services and

then refuse treatment and

would then be detained for

her own safety:

sober the next day, she’d

walk away, sad and

regretful: a male care worker

took advantage of her frailty

and a few weeks later she

mutilated herself so severely

that by the time the paramedics


her wings had folded tightly.




a line, (a short blue one)



Burn Out


So many

have tried

to put the

fires out



there was




and even

in death,

by way of

dirty heroin,

even that

did not


that natural

beauty of






a line, (a short blue one)



Studio Work


In silence, was I,

smoking a joint of hash,

sat in my studio

and I saw a wasp

entangled in a thick

spider’s web,

thrashing, struggling

violently to free

itself to escape


for some moments

I watched nature

working its survival,

capture, kill or be

killed and then I

thought, fuck it,

I didn’t know this

wasp and it didn’t

know me but that

didn’t seem to

matter as I

carefully cut

through the web

with sharp scissors,

the pour soul was

frantic as I moved

outside where I

very gently snipped


at the sticky fabric and

then within a few

moments, the wasp

broke free and

flew away, not

looking back:

‘Good luck fella’

I whispered,

picking up the joint

and inhaling


through a

tight smile.



a line, (a blue one)


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