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by John D Robinson



The First One


He wasn’t aware that I was walking

behind him when he stumbled and

smashed head-first into the side of a

parked car, for a few moments he lay

still, groaning and cursing and then

managed to get back onto his feet,

wobbling, disorientated, fucked up,

he lurched forward with a gashed

bleeding head in search of the next

drink and then I turned away

knowing he didn’t need my help,

what he needed was a drink and that

was what I needed too as I headed

for a place of illegal intoxication.




a line, (a short blue one)





We could hear them,

they were close,

very close,

we were frozen in

stillness and silence

as we were hunted by

those that wanted to

harm us,

angry feet stomped

just a few yards away,

they were cussing and

damning our very

souls and their harsh

footsteps and hateful

voices faded away

and we were hesitant

to move, scared and


then night clung to

us as we escaped

the danger, at least

for the time being.




a line, (a short blue one)



Rolling Anguish


It happens,

every now and then

it happens,

stoned, drunk, or both,

enough hash for one

final joint

and I roll a fucking

rotten lousy stinker

of a joint: the fucker

goes up instantly in

a fierce flame or for

some reason, the J

doesn’t burn

smoothly and I’m

sucking in nothing

but air: I am too

fucked to re-roll

and the anti-climax

of anticipation



time for another




a line, (a blue one)


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