Poems
by John D Robinson
The Poetry-Whore
am a poetry-whore,
in fact, I generally offer
myself for free,
occasionally Ill 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
wouldnt 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 dont 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 Id
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, thats what
matters, getting loaded,
numbed from this fucking
nightmare life of pain she
told me;
she was early 30s,
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 theyd
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 didnt 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, wed
meet randomly and would always
stop and try and converse, no
matter how intoxicated we were:
Id 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 doesnt count for
too much, like, its
no surprise its
happening again,
like a buzzing bee or
a crawling ant or a
drop of rain, its all
the same, seen it before,
its all too familiar,
routine.
thats 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 didnt 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 isnt
painful, just fucking
frustrating and Im 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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