John D. Robinson

A HUNCHBACK IN THE PARK

by John D. Robinson

From the early hours the

rain fell hard and cold and

relentless throughout the

day; by 08:30 AM

I was soaked and

pissed-off with holes

in my shoes and on my way

to a one-bedroom

drugs-den to

meet a gentleman in need

of my support and advice;

a smashed guy in his 30s

answered the door, he

looked worried when he didn’t

recognize me and the

rain fell furiously as he

called out to my client

who came and opened up

the door and I stepped

inside the damp, bug-infested

apartment; the original door

answerer instantly

disappeared into the bedroom

closing the door behind him;

a 50-something unkempt

stoned woman stumbled around

in the kitchen, pretending

to wash dishes, in the small

filthy lounge, a beautiful

20-year-old girl is wasted and

turns away to avoid any

eye contact and then

comes a knock at the door;

a scraggy tall thin youth

bounces in and says

“I’ve got you a treat

man, got it right here”

and he taps a breast pocket

with his dirty hand.

“I’ll write to you”

I say taking my leave

“We’ll meet soon,”

I step back out into the

pelting rain and curse

loudly and wish that I

was someplace else, warm

and comfortable and I

walk through the park

onto my next visit and

walking up ahead of me,

I see an old guy doubled-over,

a big hump on his back and

the rain is smashing and

splattering off the bump

and he moves with

determination, with a

purpose; perhaps going

home and I wonder how

he can see where he’s

going and the hateful

rain crashing down and I

watched him but I

didn’t feel sorry for him,

I felt in awe of this

hunchback in the park;

he became a hero, a muse

and I walked on inspired

in a way I understand

and the hunchback

unaware of his own

beauty in the ceaseless rain,

walked on.

A TALE OF PARENTING

by John D. Robinson

Her parents weren’t to blame,

they were honest, hard-working

folk; they raised 3 daughters

and the middle girl caused them

sorrow;

she took to speed and

alcohol and bad men and she

had 3 children of her own;

2 girls and then a boy;

trying to bring up children

didn’t work out and the

grandparents occasionally

took custody of the children;

the baby boy was taken

into care from birth and

he never knew or met his

mother.

I’d see her on the streets,

our mothers were best

friends; we’d known each

other from our first drawn

breath;

one time she unexpectedly

turned up at my apartment,

we smoked some grass and

drank some wine and I thought

that we were going to fuck but

she was also friends with my

estranged wife and it never

happened;

just a few weeks before her death

I saw her; yellow-skinned and

bloated, I knew she didn’t

have long, her kidneys packing-

up and her heart punished

too much; she took a

beating from a dealer or a

loan shark on behalf of

the asshole she was living

with and a few weeks later

she died in hospital;

and a few years previous

her eldest daughter had been

sentenced to life for

attempted murder; she was

15 years old; a near fatal

stabbing, pushing the knife into

the gut of some enemy and then

ripping the blade upwards;

she writes poetry in her cell

and it is very good

and the bastards took her

to her mother’s funeral

in a secured vehicle

and was handcuffed and

flanked by 2 other officers

at all times;

she writes poetry in her cell

and they are very good

and she dedicates them

to her mother.

PURSUING JUNE

by John D. Robinson

“Fuck me man, she really

is ugly” I said “I feel kind

of sorry for her” and I

did, looking at her thin

and haunted soul hunched

alone over a drink.

“She’s not so bad, and

anyways, she gives out”

my friend said staring

at a woman known as June;

or more commonly referred

to as “June the Loon”

a notorious presence in

the local late-night

club scene;

“She’s crazy” I said

“I know” my friend

agreed “But I haven’t

fucked in weeks and

I’m aching and for the

price of a couple of

drinks I’m not going

to let it go; it doesn’t

matter what she looks

like, I just need to get

laid” he said with a

spiky passion.

He moved away and

joined June at a

table; I stood at the

bar sipping on a

beer and then I was

invited to join the

two of them;

up close “June the Loon”

was almost scary, her face

was scarred with the

harsh and dismissive

world she lived in, the

clumsily applied makeup

only made

matters worse, but, she

spoke with a very soft

and sexy voice that

seemed to somehow

contradict everything else

about her.

The 3 of us left the club

and walked the short

distance to the edges of the

town center to a secluded

stretch of grassy banks;

the 2 of them staggered away

from the footpath and

into the darkness;

I walked on and found

a public bench and

waited for my friend,

it wasn’t long before

he appeared looking very

disappointed and angry;

he spat into the air and

cursed “She laid down

and then she vomited

all over herself, I couldn’t

carry on” he said shaking

his head softly;

I patted him upon a

shoulder and gave

a thought for June, laying

alone nearby in the grass,

feeling sick and abandoned

once again, looking up into

the cold distant stars,

looking beyond the stars,

like she’s looking for

something she

lost so very long ago.

WHAT HAVE SOME OF US BECOME?

by John D. Robinson

She died aged 2 years old

weighing just 13lbs;

prior to death she hadn’t

eaten or drank for days,

100+ physical injuries,

belt marks, bite marks,

cracked ribs, missing teeth

and trauma blows to

her head, deep cuts stitched

with needle and thread

at home;

she was locked in the

bathroom and slept in the

bathtub covered in

blood and feces;

she was just 2 years old

when she was tortured,

starved and sadistically

murdered, like her life meant

nothing at all, no more

valuable than a fucking

falling leaf;

she had never once been

outside of the house,

neighbors didn’t know of

her existence;

her mother rides with

a history of drug abuse and

neglect of children and has

an IQ of 67 and

she is pregnant

with her 8^th child;

her father has

a record of violent

assaults upon women and

minors;

today he was sentenced for

execution

and well-paid legal bodies

will plead for his life

like his daughter did for hers;

he is 32 years old guilty of

vicious cruelty and murder;

she was just 2 years old

and guilty of nothing;

her life was pitifully short

never knowing of love,

knowing nothing but pain

and suffering,

seeing no one but those 2

brutal bastards;

death must have been a

true relief,

although not a believer,

I like to think that she’s

now in a different place

and

getting to know of

gentle love.

AN OUTLAW IN THE MAKING

by John D. Robinson

My dear mom is just something

short of being clinically obsessed

with her house cleanliness

and one of the blinding golden

rules is under no circumstances

are OUTSIDE shoes worn

INSIDE the house;

the rules are drilled into you

at a very early age,

my nephew is 5 and he is

very bright and forward-thinking;

a little while ago he was playing

out in the backyard when he

needed to get something from

INSIDE the house,

without hesitation he strolled

INSIDE the house still wearing

his OUTSIDE shoes;

his mother reminded him,

“Samuel, you know you’re not

meant to be wearing your shoes

INSIDE the house,”

without pause in his stride and

without turning around he said,

“Well, I am,”

and he carried on walking

INSIDE the house wearing his

OUTSIDE shoes;

there was a stunned silence,

open mouths, wide-open eyes

and nonbelief from the witnesses

and when told of this, I laughed

and laughed and giggled and

nodded my head;

5 years old, an outlaw-in-the-

making; doing things his way

despite the rules of others,

I raise a glass.

OFTEN SHE SAYS

by John D. Robinson

“I don’t know how the fuck

you do the writing and stuff

after putting all that shit into

your system;

the pills and drugs

the wine

day after day

year after year”

she says

“Neither do I”

I tell her reaching for my

glass

grinning in mystery

and waiting for the

answer

that’ll come anytime

soon enough.

SUICIDE OF LIVING

by John D. Robinson

Beachy Head in East Sussex,

UK; is a famous stretch of

coastal cliffs, people travel

from around the globe to

jump into oblivion;

it’s about 15 miles from

my home:

I’d met him 3 or 4 times,

a softly spoken, polite and

effeminate, lisping gay-man

19 years old, who enjoyed

the occasional use of

booze and hash, nothing

concerning, party stuff;

his younger brother

jumped to his death 8

months ago, he attended

the funeral, flanked by

hospital staff, stood alone,

away from his family,

outcast and ignored,

like he’d always been

and just a few days ago,

he too threw himself

from Beachy Head;

I’m 55 and I thought I

knew of pain, suffering

and despair,

I don’t,

I don’t have a fucking

clue and it’s best I

keep on getting drunk

and stoned and carry on

with the slow suicide

of living.

HERE WE ARE, YOU & I

by John D. Robinson

He was 16 years old

she was just 6 years old

he abducted her, he

raped and tortured her

and murdered her: 115

individual injuries to

the face, skull, neck,

broken fingers and ribs;

there is something of

us that lurks in the

depths of depravity,

of the sadistic and a

viciousness that

destroys the

innocence:

he’ll spend 30 years in

prison: separated,

secure, safe: the life-

sentence was handed

down to the little girl’s

family:

wild birds and animals

prey on the young and

vulnerable for

survival, not for such

sick satisfaction:

we, as a species, may

walk tall

but without doubt

dive to hell and

bring it alive

back to earth.

A NOVEMBER MORNING

by John D. Robinson

After yet another deep soulful

apology and regret and another

promise that it would never

happen again, she returned

for the final time, soon after,

she died of 91 injuries to her

face, throat, head and ribs

that punctured her lungs:

I didn’t know her but I

knew her mother and she

told me, tearfully,

that she had begged her

daughter to leave this

evil brutal controlling

mindless asshole but the

thought of leaving him

seemed to her daughter

more scary than staying

with him: she thought and

hoped that love, their

love, her love, his love

would extinguish the

flicker to flame explosions

of unpredictable drunken

hateful violence within him,

but love failed,

her mother told me, one

cold November morning.

HARD & HEAVY

by John D. Robinson

One of those lousy gray gloomy

raining hard and heavy days:

we’d made a contact, made the

meet and went back home to

taste our purchase and we

were devastated: we’d been

burnt badly: the shit was

soaking wet and our

women laughed at us:

once it was dried, we got

3 lousy joints of

nothingness: we didn’t

laugh but watched the rain

relentlessly cascading and

it seemed to add to our

sense of desperation and

disappointment:

we opened our first

bottle of wine,

it was 10 AM

and we hoped that it

would make the day a

little easier to swing with

and our women

stopped laughing

and looked out at

the rain.

THE STORM

by John D. Robinson

Like walking against a

continuous gale force

storm, step after step,

day after day:

she had little chance,

neglectful alcoholic

parents, violence,

physical and sexual

abuse until she was

removed from the

monsters aged seven:

she was way beyond

traumatized, scars so

deep they would never

be seen:

just after her 15^th

birthday, she leapt

from the top of a 5-

story carpark:

the autopsy report

revealed that she was

3 months pregnant

and that the baby

had died with her.

John D. Robinson is a UK poet. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in print and online: he has published several chapbooks and Uncollected Press will shortly be publishing his first full collection, Hang in There.