Archive for the John D Robinson Category

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

NOT LONG by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on February 14, 2018 by Scot

After he died I got rumours
that she was prostituting
herself for alcohol and
codeine: I made a visit,
the door was open, I
found her semi-naked,
semi-conscious on her
lounge floor, laying close
to the gas fire, she was
badly burnt and had over
medicated: I called the
services, maybe I saved
her ass that day: she never
thanked me for it, it was
love and hate between us,
no middle ground:
she died a little while
later, overdosing on life
and prescription drugs
and alcohol and a
broken heart that
could take no more.

OVER-SLEEPING by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on September 22, 2017 by Scot

Fucked if I can remember
his name but he was an old,
ugly and wiry muscle
bearded fellow who told
me that he’d be woken
by the voices of a guy and
girl screaming at one
another at 02:30 am:
‘I opened up the window
of my room overlooking
the street, 3 floors up and
shouted: HEY! Stop that
screaming at each other,
I haven’t fucked
anything for over 20
years and if you don’t
stop arguing and go home
now and fuck then I
will come down there
and fuck the both of you!’
‘That was a fair call’
I said ‘How’d it go?’
‘I overslept’ he said.

MONKEY DAVE by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on January 20, 2017 by Scot

Monkey Dave at one time,
would hassle the seaside
tourists with a polaroid
camera and a tiny vervet
monkey and when the
monkey died he decided
to become a pot dealer;
he conducted his business
from a local legendary
bar that the police would
frequently ignore;
he married this stunning
young blonde from
Helsinki, the daughter of
the city’s chief of police
and she fucked his friends
and then returned to
he stopped speaking,
stopped leaving his home
until he was carried out in
a body-bag just a few
months later of a
heart attack, or of a
broken heart
or so its told.


Posted in John D Robinson with tags on July 11, 2016 by Scot

Born in Havana in 1891 to farming
labourer parents; he emigrated
to Miami in about 1920;
his livelihood was cigar rolling and
tobacconist and then he
moved to NYC and then
finally to Philadelphia;
he married and gained a son
and everyday after a 10 hour
shift of factory work he’d
return to his small and
humble apartment and
create breath-taking; astounding
works of art
and he never showed another
living soul these works;
never uttered a word to
anyone; kept no correspondence
with anyone; did not know
or socialize with artists and
he stole materials from the
factory to make beautiful
and astonishing collages of
human condition and political
absurdity and it is rumoured
that his son assisted with some
of these works and in
1983 some 20
years after his death,
discovered in a garage-sale was
nearly 800 works
from the artist, the healer, the man
who produced for the sake of
beauty; pleasure; love; pain;
creating not for money; fame; ego;
and now his works are
analysed and priced far
beyond the means of any
factory worker and maybe
Felipe Jesus Consalvos
would feel really pissed-off
with this bullshit.