DRESS CODE

‘I’ve got to wear this’ she said

slipping back into the dress of

the previous night; ‘I wasn’t

expecting any of this’ she said

as she buttoned and zipped,

‘I mean, I had planned to go

home last night’

I propped myself up in the

bed; ‘This could be your

home’ I said,

she looked around the small

untidy cluttered room that

was my world:

‘I’d cramp your style’ she

said smiling:

‘You may be right’ I said,

rising naked from the bed

and stepping over a few

bodies sleeping on the floor:

‘Take care’ I said, kissing her

cheek:

she draped her arms across my

shoulders and kissed me hard,

‘Who the fuck are these people?’

she asked,

‘I don’t know’ I said, ‘See you

later’

‘If you’re lucky’ she said

closing the door behind her.

ARTHUR & DONALD

I have a young Rimbaud

in my head tonight and

he’s running around with a

revolver in his hand and

he’s looking desperate and

dangerous and he scares

me but in an exciting way

and he seeks out the fool

Donald Trump who is

holding a hand-gun in

each hand and he looks

dumb and deranged and

he really fucking scares

me in a terrifying way

along with the rest of the

globe:

Arthur moves in,

Donald starts shooting

wildly and manically,

Rimbaud takes aim and

pulls the trigger

in an almighty

illumination

and I find myself alone in

a drunken boat drifting to

nowhere once again.

PLEASE, GIVE ME THE LAST LINE FIRST

‘We are looking for

exciting, daring and

uncompromising

works of poetry,

words that sting,

dark and humorous,

words that loiter

like a street-thief

in the reader’s head

long after reading

and what we’re also

looking for is a

$5.00 reading fee.

A KITCHEN TABLE MEMORY

On at least a couple of

occasions he was sober

for several months at a

time and he worked

regular manual factory

jobs and it was so

strange coming home

from school and seeing

him coming home

straight and tired and

sitting at the kitchen

table with us for the

evening meal and I’d

look at him and feel so

pleased he was there

and he’d look at me and

nod his head with a

quiet smile: he never

once asked how I was

or what I was doing,

he knew nothing about

me but that didn’t

matter because he was

my father and I loved

him as much as I could

whenever he was

 around but I never

told him this, we’d sit

and eat in silence,

like two

awkward strangers.

LET’S THINK AGAIN

It was always

going to be

heroin

that was going

to kill him:

for 3 decades

it was always

going to be a

heroin

overdose death,

no surprise,

but not cancer,

no one thought

of that,

not cancer,

that changes

everything,

now people

have a

sympathy

for him.

GRANDCHILDREN

Both of them together

weighed less than 6lb

at birth: 3 months

premature:

man, they were fucking

tiny, so delicate, fragile,

closer to death than life

and my daughter weak

by the loss of blood:

for 3 months the twins

were in special-care

-units, you couldn’t

really see them through

the maze of wires and

tubes and bleeping

machines, but we

visited everyday and

spoke to them and

brought gifts:

every 2 or 3 days my

daughter could hold

her babies and the

feelings were beyond

description and we all

cried in joy:

something inside me knew

they’d all make it, I

couldn’t think of it any

other way:

my daughter is a tough

woman and her babies

just as tough:

they are 4 years old now

yet it seems like

yesterday we’d finish

work and drive the 30

miles to the hospital

to visit our

grandchildren fighting

for every moment.

John D Robinson