Archive for poetry

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.


Matador by Alan Catlin

Posted in Alan Catlin with tags on February 12, 2018 by Scot


Three days into a drinking
holiday weekend, shot full of
chemicals, beer and Red Bull,
he’s as hyper as Old Jake,
The Raging Bull himself
before a grudge match.
The whole world is a boxing
ring for him, stocked with men
he imagined his wife was having
it off with. He’s strung tighter
than a taut bale of barbed wire,
a snip away from release,
from turning whatever bar he
happened to end up in into a
killing field full of blunt force
trauma victims: his fists bloodied
and held high in victory for cheering
crowds only he can hear,
compressed eyes pinched
into tiny balls like buck shot
pellets stuck in hardboiled egg
whites, blood drops tattooed at
the corners, vestiges of physical
pains he could no longer endure.

Three Poems by John Sweet

Posted in John Sweet with tags on February 12, 2018 by Scot

down canyons of static

cold as snow as
cold as christ and we’ll
make it warm with

we’ll set that fucker on fire
in the back of his truck

will leave the baby at the
desert’s edge with a guitar and
a handful of broken glass
and we’ll teach it the myth of
robert johnson

we’ll place it’s fragile skull
between the boot heel
and the rock

we’ll sing to it softly
until morning comes


one from the age of subtle atrocities

living close to water
and without fear

living alone with the
wife and the secrets

small failures mean nothing
in windowless rooms,
small victories even less


it isn’t a story,
but an idea

man locks his daughter in
the basement when she’s
18 and then keeps her there
for 24 years

rapes her

fathers her children

signs deals for the movie,
the sequel,
the video game

considers god like you
would a second helping
of dessert

considers dessert

all of these choices to
be made while the crows
gather outside your




blurred outlines january late
afternoon grey houses in early evening
light, this woman who will set her child on fire,
these young men who will rape a teenage girl then
leave her in a vacant lot, this moment that will
arrive already ruined beyond repair and then
the one after that and then the
one after that

and the war, of course,
and without an end in sight

the mindless need for victory

the makers of bombs and of poison gases
balanced out by the
need for money to survive

the future still only a theory but
the possibilities narrowing

woman at the edge of the road opens a
can of lighter fluid and
all we have left is despair

Sex & Dignity by LYNNE SAVITT

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on January 30, 2018 by Scot


a white hospital blanket covered your feeding
tube yr eyes closed peaceful as a corpse yr
glasses resting on yr flat broken nose pale
as i’ve ever seen you in over forty years loving
you i kissed yr forehead warm & wrinkled smile
came to yr face opening yr eyes “my princess”
you said to my daughter who left the room to
give us privacy “touch my cock,” you asked &
as if we were in the prison visiting room i reached
under the starched sheet searching for yr penis
but I couldn’t find a quarter inch of of the almost
eight i remembered ‘’where is it?’’ i asked ‘’it’s gone’’
‘’under the diaper i’m wearing, ‘’ you answered
SEX AFTER SIXTY was a book i used to shelve
while working at b. dalton’s when i was in my
twenties never looking ahead to the rules it
listed put away yr medications & photos of yr
grandkids no where was a chapter on diapers
or arthritic hands that could freeze in permanent
grip if i tried a hospital hand job to take care
of you need more than i could ever give i’m
remarried now living hundreds of miles
away i am still yr healthcare proxy & to you
still responsible for yr shy cock swaddled
in a paper diaper yearning to be a warrior again

why do you punch cops? by Justin Hyde

Posted in Justin Hyde with tags on January 30, 2018 by Scot


i ask
at his parole sign-on

the file
showing assaults
on nine cops
in three states

that stack of paper
don’t say shit
i punch everyone

i punched the teacher
the bully
the bus-driver

i punched the city worker
who tried turning mom’s water off

the dhs worker
who tried taking me away

i punched my uncle
in the back of the head
when he hit mom with a hammer

i punched a dog’s teeth out
when it bit mom on the leg

i punched a whole nativity scene
into dust
in front of a church
when they told mom
quit begging
go get a job

i punched
every single mother-fucker
i had to call dad

all twelve of them

see these hands?

Death’s Door by Alan Catlin

Posted in Alan Catlin with tags on January 30, 2018 by Scot


He is as gaunt as a Camp survivor,
one of Death’s on-the-job recruiters
working the bars for new recruits.
Runs his hand over three months of
chemo hair style, rubs his bloodshot,
watering eyes, says,
“I must look like an Irish trashcan.
That’s how I feel these days.”
Is trying to drink a depth charged
pint of stout, says,
“For the Iron.” But is having
trouble keeping it down.
“Used to be I was a real dresser.
Chaser of ladies both large and small.
Look at me now.” Wears pants
the fit him like a sick elephant’s
skin even with a belt pulled as tight
as it will go and a shirt made for
a man two or three times his size,
says, “What’s the point of buying
new clothes now?”
“Have one on the house.
For the road.”
Kind of smiles, “Sure, why not.
What the hell?

MLK Day Poem 2018 by Michael Grover

Posted in Michael Grover with tags on January 30, 2018 by Scot


(Every Poem is Illegal)

Did you ever think
It would be 2018
& we’d experience whitelash
From our first black president
& everything that went wrong
Would be blamed on him

Did you ever think
It would be 2018
& people would be from
Shithole countries that should be
On the other side of the wall
Yet to be built

It is two thousand eighteen
& people are beaten down
By the flagrant racism coming from the whitehouse
By the economic polices coming from the whitehouse
By the tweets coming from the whitehouse
By the endless perpetual Orwellian war coming from the whitehouse
By environmental polices coming from the whitehouse
By capitalism on crack coming from the whitehouse

Yet here we are
The times they are a changin’
Doin’ a backward goosestep
Doin’ a backward slow dance off a cliff
& we’re never gonna be the same again
We might not recognize ourselves tomorrow
Perfect for a Hollywood screen
Save the dramatic happy ending
Martin it’s been fifty years since you’ve gone
I know it like the year I was born
You and d.a. levy
Who just wanted a just World
It feels like the truth is illegal
That makes Poetry illegal
Some still do the dance
Talk real loud & say nothing
It’s all just talk these days
& those of us that do walk the walk
Walk slowly to our grave
I have cancer Martin
I’m not much of a fighter anymore
Too busy fighting to stay alive
I don’t even write that much anymore
You probably wouldn’t think we’ve made much progress
People are still people
All the racist people
All the anti-racist people
It’s still divide & conquer
It’s still law & order
It’s still real