John D. Robinson- Three Poems

NEIL AND THE KITTY CAT SCRATCH

We met at a compulsory governmental
work placement for the unholy wayward
misfits and mavericks of all kinds;
Neil was tall and solid with one
static eye and a grand sense of
daring and mischievousness and
we got high on the toxic fumes
whilst making kayaks and we
smoked grass in our lunch breaks
and swallowed pills not knowing
what they were and one time, Neil
was giving the task of hand-painting
a ‘NO SMOKING’ sign in 3ft red
letters upon a basement garage wall.
Hours later Neil hollered that he had
finished; he had painted
‘NO SMOCKING’
no one had the heart to say a word
as Neil stood pleased and proud of
his artistry;
we never met socially only by
chance and it was always warm
and friendly and then recently
outside of the offices where I work
we met and greeted one another as
usual and then I stepped back and
stared at the stump of a left arm;
“How the fuck did that happen!”
I asked
“My cat scratched me. It became
infected, I ignored it, I was doing a
lot of shit at that time and then it was too
late. I went into surgery and came out
4lbs lighter”
“A kitty cat scratch?” I said
“Yeah” Neil said grinning “A pussy
cat, BUT, the drugs are fucking
brilliant!”
and I watched him roll a cigarette
with the stump and his chin and
his able arm and hand. “The drugs
are fucking great” he said “I’m
wasted anytime I like” and he
smiled, like he always smiled and
I lit his cigarette and looked at the
stump and thought of him 20
years ago with both arms and then
we looked at one another, as we
once did, as friends look at one another
and then he said
“It’s cool man; really. Stay lucky!”
and then he turned and walked away and
I gave thought to my 4 cats and of Neil
and of  ‘NO SMOCKING’ and of
his severed limb lying upon a
stainless steel surface and then I
dragged my sorry ass lucky life back
to work.



COMING CLEAN

He probably hasn’t bathed for years;
he moved into the basement apartment
17 years ago and not a moment has been
spent cleaning it; 17 years of dust,
hardship, drugs and desperation and
desolation and dreams and
grime and smoke choke the home and
everything within;
for 4 decades he has been wired to
hard drugs; the floor carpets stick to
the soles of your shoes and garbage
bags overflow in every room;
he explains that he would like to
move and that he has a
comprehensive list of all the
major drug dealers and loan –sharks
in a 60 mile radius, he tells me he
has invented mechanical engines
that are fuelled by cigarette smoke
and that he is building a boat, a
big boat from pieces of wood
reclaimed from the streets; he says
he’s getting ready for the flood;
he says he has the I.T. knowledge to
hack into any global government computer
system and he spends his days playing
computed games and answers the door
20 – 30 times a day,
and people come and go from his
filthy abode and some stay for
just a few minutes, some for a few
hours, some stay for a few days or
for a few weeks or months and
he asks me
“Can you help me? I need a bigger,
a better place”
‘Why don’t you build one
yourself’ I say beneath my
breath as I make my leave.
“I’m good tenant!” he reassures
me.
“I’ll see what I can do” I tell him
stepping into the fresh air and
needing a shower.



A DAY OFF

I stayed at home;
the house phone didn’t ring
and the mobile was
switched off;
no fucker knocked on
the door to tell me
where my life was
going wrong.
I took some codeine and
smoked some joints and
then took the dog for a
walk and didn’t see a single
asshole to bother me;
I made lunch and
afterwards took a nap
and no one was expecting
anything of me and they
didn’t get anything and
I listened to the radio and
didn’t give a shit about
anybody else and it felt
good like a day-off from
every fucking thing in
this life that we’ve made for
one another.


John D Robinson was born in the UK in 63. He began writing poetry aged 16. Many of his poems have appeared in the small press and online publications including Dead Snakes, Red Fez, Bareback Lit, The Chicago Record, The Commonline Journal, Mad Swirl, The Kitchen Poet, Pulsar, Poet&Geek and upcoming work appearing in The Clockwise Cat, Poetic Diversity, Your One Phone Call, Message In A Bottle. His short fiction has appeared in WordsCome Ezine, Opal Publishing, Jotters United, Words Pauses Noises, Horror Sleaze and Trash. He is married with one daughter, two grandchildren, four cats, one dog and he likes to drink wine and forget about it all.