Archive for the John D Robinson Category

John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on December 1, 2021 by Scot


‘You’ve hardly spoken to me for
3 weeks and now you won’t
shut up!’ she told me:
I was beautifully stoned on
valium and codeine and some
very naughty hash: I was
attempting to engage my wife
into a conversation about
who, why? how, we are as a
species upon this planet,
what is our purpose?
beauty and horror!
that’s us!
‘You know’ she said ‘when
you do talk to me sometimes,
it makes absolutely no fucking
‘I love you’ I said:
‘There you go again!’ she said.

A FIX by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on April 7, 2021 by Scot

The calling bells
hide in the crevices
of a lost love poem,
now dead upon the
eyes of a day when
we need a fix of
nothing else,
a shot of
colour against
the windows
of whoever
may be

Three Poems by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on January 12, 2021 by Scot


whether a day
or a hundred years
is given
and taken away
of every day
and night:
the moon is
moving away from
the earth and the
sun is dying
but there’s
still time
to get
something right.




‘We are decaying’ I said
on Christmas day eve:
‘You’re so fucking morbid’
she said:
‘Maybe’ I said ‘but it’s true’
‘But today of all days!’ she said:
‘Death and dying doesn’t put
the brakes on because its
Christmas’ I said:
‘Cliché’ she said:
‘So is, ‘fuck it’ I said:
‘So is, ‘fuck you’ she said:
‘Over used’ I said:
‘Like, ‘I love you’ she said:
I lifted my glass, took a gulp
before I said:
‘Hell yes, hands-down’






‘Love never goes unpunished’
Diablo once told me one night as
we drank in a down town bar:
he laughed, when I asked why:
‘You fucking fool!’ he snarled:
‘The crown of thorns can only
be worn once’ and then he
laughed again and I looked
all around my home finding
only quietness and then I
laughed along with Diablo and
felt his embrace of frustration
as I kissed my wife goodnight,
her silhouette lit the moon
as it disappeared without a




John D Robinson is a UK poet: hundreds of his poems have appeared online and in print: he has published several chapbooks and five full collections of his work: ‘Always More’ ‘New & Selected Poems’ was recently published by Horror Sleaze Trash: he was a 2020/2021 Pushcart Prize Nominee.

SKY DRAWING by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on August 31, 2020 by Scot

Your kiss is not a betrayal
but a blue smudge of a
child’s sky drawing,
a spillage of sunshine,
handcuffs of warmth,
your kiss is a passport,
it is a hammer
3 nails.

I NEVER STOPPED by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on June 29, 2020 by Scot

The letters would arrive,
I’d see the insignia of the
prison stamped all over:
he could barely read or
write and it must have
been a challenge for him
and he’d write with
irregularity: the letters
are simple, open and
direct: ‘God bless you
John’ he’d end all the
letters, though he held
no theological faith:
the letters were full of
promises and wishes
and sentiment, broken
repeatedly but I never
stopped loving him,
his was my father,
I got to know him
during my late teens,
we drank and fought
and had many wild
I hold the letters now,
like one would a
small injured bird
in the cradle of
a hand,
I can feel it’s pulse
it’s spirit
it’s energy
to fly once again.

Poem by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on May 7, 2020 by Scot


Love never dies’ is bullshit,

usually, it’s murdered,

you know that.

RAZORS & WRITING by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on December 14, 2019 by Scot


The brave dare to
live honestly,
to openly accept a
twisting fate,
the unexpected
the brave dare to
admit defeat,
to hold darkness
like a sharpened
to look into a
mirror and see
the horror,
the brave dare to
stare down love,
to cheat diablo
and hold the hands
of every tragedy,
to roll the dice
and gamble
the brave dare to
dance across
the smiles of
rusting razor blades
and to write it
all down.

THE MAGIC by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on October 1, 2019 by Scot

Nothing to write about
the decay of humanity and its
implosion of violence and
selfishness and self-hatred,
nothing to write about
the awesome wonder of a
bee or the feeling of the
sun or rain, exploring,
touching your skin,
the infinite majesty of
Beethoven, Bach and
Sibelius, the hand-work of
Basquait, Pollock, or
Goya and the rants of
Olivier Larronde,
Shelley and Kerouac,
nothing to write about
the magic of

POEM FOR POET MARTY MATZ……………… by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on April 1, 2019 by Scot


Beware the deadly under-dose’
said Marty Matz
and he’s right, of course,
he would also constantly beg
and borrow cash and
wouldn’t think too much
about spending $50:00
on a bolognaise sauce
or buying a busy bar a
round of drinks with the
money he borrowed:
Marty had a taste for
opium and brandy,
he was charming and
captivating and funny
and intelligent and
wrote astounding
surrealist poetry,
he poured wine over
Corso’s coffin
and read his poetry
to jazz;
he was beautiful
to some,
a bastard to others
but poet to all.

Two Poems by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on November 4, 2018 by Scot


‘I don’t care what you
write anymore, no, I
don’t mean that, but
everybody is making
a profit out of you,
don’t you see it?
tell me, whose the mug?
they publish you, right?
they send you 5 or 10
copies of the book
and you give these away,
but the publisher, they
sell their copies, right?
but that doesn’t bother
you does it?
‘Right’ I said
‘Right’ she said.





She never knew of love,
the way she imagined it
would be;
it wasn’t being beaten
senseless by a speed-
freak or laying on the
streets unconscious as
the wino’s pissed and
masturbated over you
or of losing children
to hospitals and prisons
or knocking on the door
of an old friend; fragile
and vulnerable and of
how, that night, he
cared for you, looked
after and comforted
you and you offered
yourself to him but he
played it away and
rolled another joint
and when he handed
you the smoke, you felt
something as your fingers
touched, he felt it too but
neither said a word,
looked silently at one
another and relaxed into
a smile and then he
moved away, put on a
Miles Davis
disc and uncorked
another bottle,
both of them dare
not let go of what
and how they felt and
later she left by taxi;
next time he saw her,
several weeks later,
she was being