PUSHING AWAY THE HOURS
Countless years of drinking, getting drunk and high and I’ve enjoyed almost all of it except the time I was threatened with a razor blade across my face in a bus shelter following an argument amongst the wino’s over a fucking cigarette paper, it was a scary time, it happened so very quickly, over within a few moments, not really having time to consider what the fuck was happening: but I’ve enjoyed it mostly, like that time I had money in my pocket and I bought food and wine and took 2 or 3 bums back to junky Annie and cooked food and drank wine with these brave, dirty and useless souls, that dared go on: pushing away the hours, the years of hopelessness with not a care or dream, but staying with it, because there’s nothing else. FLIES TO HUMANS I will, at a push and under protest, kill a fly or a bed- bug or cockroach: I will not kill anything else no matter how creepy, crawly, hairy and ugly but completely innocent: I’ll catch it and remove it safely from the house and let it go upon it’s way and warn the fucker not to return: but if it was an uninvited human stranger then things may be a little different: I prefer insects, spiders and even flies to most human beings, so I’d probably be more defensive and aggressive with intent, besides, my wife would probably deal with the asshole. MY PARENTS WEREN’T MONSTERS My parents weren’t monsters, he was a son of an alcoholic illiterate gypsy family and she was a daughter of a simple working-class family without ambition except surviving and gossip: mother was a school chef and a silent and talented artist: father was a drunkard and a scoundrel and a lovely fucking fool: my parents weren’t monsters but two young souls desperate for something different and daring, to push the walls away, to create something of their own through their own kind of love for one another and they didn’t create monsters but shadows of themselves unleashed in a time of brief happiness. (John D Robinson is a published poet from the UK)
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