recent posts

Friday, January 1, 2016

Featuring John D Robinson

Update: 4 March 2017: More new poems

Rated M (15+)


‘Do you have to use that word?’
I knew the word she referenced
but just for the fucking hell of it
I asked ‘What word?’
‘the C word’ she said
‘Cunt’ I said
‘Yeah’ she said ‘You really
have to use that word?’
‘Well, I couldn’t think of a
more vile and vicious and
suitable word that I could use
to capture the subject of the
poem’ I replied;
after a few moments,
 she slowly
nodded her head, perhaps
beginning to understand that
‘cunt’ was probably the right
choice of word to use to use
for this particular asshole


She was tall and blonde
with big tits and long
creamy legs and I never
played and sucked on
those big tits and I never
got between those
wonderful long legs,
she was a friend of mine,
I was a friend of hers,
we had partners and
families, it was like
being hand-cuffed to
something so special
that something as basic
as fucking one another
would have
way beyond our


‘I finger-fucked her a
few nights ago’ he told
me grinning and then
looked over at the
woman I was drinking
‘Maybe you’d like to
tell her husband that,
he’ll be here shortly’
I replied draining the
Jim Bean chaser;
‘What the fuck did that
asshole just tell you?’
 asked the woman
I was drinking with;
‘Why don’t you ask
him yourself’
I suggested and then
we both looked over,
but it was too late,

the barstool was vacant.

Older stuff from 1 Jan 2016:


In my mid teens and into my early twenties

I used to think of myself as one of the
tough guys where ever I worked;
in the army, in the factories and warehouses and
supermarkets and restaurants and
government work placements, but
the construction sites proved to be
an awakening;
I found that most guys were twice
my age, twice my height and weight,
they worked twice
as hard and drank twice as much and
fought twice as hard as I;
very unwisely,
one hot July afternoon, I became
involved in a verbal altercation
with one of these guys,
which very quickly escalated into a
potential scene of carnage;
it took 5 guys to hold my assailant
back and stop him
from ripping me
apart, limb from limb
and it took 2 guys to hold me back
from running away
and as the situation began to cool and
tempers levelled out,
and my heart dropped back
into its regular beat,
I thought of something
that Outlaw legend president
Sonny Barger
once said,
“Everyone’s a tough guy,
until they meet one”


I had left her in bed
it was early morning
and we needed a loaf of bread;
by chance or fate
or bad luck we met
and he asked
“Do you fancy a drink?”
“Of course” I said
“Where?” he asked
“Your choice” I answered;
we ended up on a ferry crossing the
channel to Belgium and for three days
and nights we stayed
drunk and crazy and
slept a few hours in a bus depot and we
staggered into carnivals
and danced with
nuns and kissed the
hands of fat barmaids
and then
3 days later  returned home,
weak and fragile and vulnerable
but my lady was angry, very angry;
“You bastard! I’ve been phoning hospitals
and police stations for
3 fucking days, I didn’t know if you were
dead or alive!”
she screamed
“You’re a lousy
thoughtless bastard
and you didn’t even
bring back a fucking
loaf of bread!”.


These days I rarely listen to
anything else but soft
classical music or silence;
but occasionally I need a rush
of something electric;
recently I tuned into a
black and white You Tube film
of Jimi Hendrix, live in
Stockholm in 1969;
15 minutes of Voodoo Chile,
a quarter of an hour of
absolute mastery, beautiful
and strange, the guy was on
another fucking planet; a
genius no doubts;
this film has had, and counting;
over 2000 000 hits;
for souls who have time and
no imagination there is a
global opportunity to give the
film a ‘thumbs up’ or a
‘thumbs down’
271 people, and possibly
counting have given a thumbs
now I would suggest that
these ‘thumb downers’
be hunted down,
beaten and then questioned
as to why the thumbs down
because if these 271 people
see fit to give
Jimi Hendrix
in his creative prime
the thumbs down
then none of us,
no matter what we do
or how well we do it,
stand a fucking chance.


My little sister had to
give up her bedroom
and share mother’s bed,
father slept it off down
stairs and I was left
alone in my box-room;
we were told he was
an uncle
but he was a hobo bum
drinker my drunken
father met and felt sorry
for and brought him
home for a couple
of days warm comfort;
within hours we were
smothered in flea bites;
mother and father
argued behind closed
doors, but uncle
stayed and he smelt
terrible and he was
filthy and he was old
and toothless and he
ate food noisily and
never spoke a word
to my sister and I;
uncle didn’t say
goodbye, he just
disappeared after 3
mother called in a
pest control company
and my sister returned
to her bedroom
and uncle was never
seen again;
father vanished on
a 4 day drunk and
then returned with the
usual remorse and
alcoholic tears and
promises; no more
visiting uncles.


Standing at the urinal,
my dick in my right hand;
half-way through, my
mobile sounded; with my
left hand I fish inside my
leather jacket, jiggling
and wriggling this way
and that and finally
retrieve the thing and
then I thumb a pad
and say “Yeah?”
“Hi; are you okay?” she
“Well, I’ve got my hands
full at the moment” I say
“Where are you? I can hear
an echo” she says;
“I’m taking a piss in a
supermarket crapper” I say
I look down at my shoes
and noticed I’d splashed
them; I glance over
at the guy in the next
urinal and for some
reason I wink at him;
he frowns, quickly zips
up and disappears;
“Are you there?” she
asks “I need some
“They’re bad for you”
I say
“So are you” she says
I don’t argue.
“Okay” I say and
terminating the call
I zip up, wash my
hands knowing that I
am more dangerous
than a pack of cigarettes
and I step back into
the supermarket feeling
invincible as I join
the queue with the
other nicotine addicts.


I have known Christine
for a decade or more;
working with her on
2 or 3 occasions;
recently in the corridors
of a hospital we met again
but she didn’t recognise
me and when I
explained who I was
and how I’d helped
her in the past,
she looked me up and
down suspiciously
and she shook her
head and asked
“Are you the REAL
John Robinson?”
“Yes I am” I said
“What’s happened to you?
you’ve let yourself go!
you look awful! but I can
help you” she said
“How can you help me
Christine?” I asked
“I can go to my room
and get a jar of cream and
put some all over your
face and cover up all
those scars and cuts and
blisters” she said
“Thank you” I said
“But I’ll be okay”
“Are you sure you’re
the REAL John Robinson?”
she asked again
“I’m not too sure now”
I said
“My grandfather was
Willo the Wisp and I
can prove it; I’ve got his
birth certificate” she
said walking away and
then she turned and
said “You’ve let
yourself go! the real
John Robinson wouldn’t
do that; he wouldn’t
look shitty”
It wasn’t yet 09.30 a.m.
and maybe Christine
was right about some
things but I was sure
it wasn’t about
‘Willow the Wisp’.


It could be seen as
to die on the crapper

but saints and geniuses
in the most
strangest of
thinking of
Villon or Chatterton
or Harry Crosby or
Hart Crane or
Harry Fainlight or
James D Quinton
Jesus of Nazareth;
but mostly now
I think of
Maxwell Bodenheim;
an early 20th century
sleazy alcoholic angel
of poetry and prose;
10 books of poetry
13 novels
in a decade or so
of money
and parties and a
couple of marriages
and friends and
supporters like
Doris Day and
E E Cummings;
and then it all crashed;
WW II changed everything
and his works went out
of fashion, unwanted,
and he became a derelict
alcoholic in NYC and
he’d peddle his poems
for shots and married
a young whore in her
20’s and he was 60
and homeless and she
sold sex and one
bitterly cold freezing
february night in 1957
refuge was taken in
a flop-house with a
deranged dishwasher;
who fucked Bodenheim’s
wife; shot the poet
twice and then stabbed
the young wife 4 times
in the back and
escaped with a life-time
in a secure hospital;

and Presley,
he had his own ride
prescription drugs
and a
shattered heart
that exploded in
august 1977;
Presley Inc
rock and rolls on
Max Bodenheim
lays in traces
of dust
in a
new jersey cemetery;


John D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; he began writing aged 16 and 1st poem published a year later; many of his poems have appeared in the small presses and numerous online Journals including Bareback Lit, Red Fez, Dead Snakes, The Kitchen Poet, The Commonline Journal, The Chicago Record, Mad Swirl, Poetic Diversity, Horror Sleaze and Trash, Pulsar, The Clockwise Cat, Your One Phone Call, Zombie Logic Review, Poetry Super Highway and promises from Ink Sweat & Tears, Message In A Bottle, The Legendary, The Sentinel Literary Quarterly; he is married with 1 daughter, 2 grandchildren, 3 cats and 1 dog; he likes to drink copious amounts of wine and stare into dark skies.