Six poems by Peter Robinson

Poetry: “unsure about her arrangement: I have /

never seen him in a suit in bed. Thinner, /

longer, he looks so serious with his halo…”

Poetry: “His shirt side-pulled, her rosy palm creams

whipped egg-white and eggplant flesh…”

Poetry: “In the basement we found his tools for separating Siamese Twins…”

Poetry: “She studied the braille / of his back in the / grey before morning…”

Poetry: “My people are people who still smoke cigarettes in bed…”

Poetry: “i love to see you. i want to see you. Sorry, i don’t watch 18 movies. i don’t want that kind of imagery going into my consciousness. ”

Poetry: “nothing is where it’s at / hurry-up i said to the delivery guy / who said urry-up nuffin / & it’s been mine ever since”

Poetry: “in the dream i swallow the bedclothes, drawing them into me like a reverse spirit medium…”

Poetry: You have a rash on your back. /
I think I’m supposed to tell you, / but while you’re asleep I take a picture of your skin

Poetry: Andy scoots past Woolworths and The Amhurst/ dazzles grey building blocks / roller skates tops / of brown brick walls…

Poetry: You wonder if this is how Tom Ripley felt…

Poetry: This country breeds men as dogs, /
Barking and barking, / Waiting for their next attack…

Poetry: By now, you must have heard his legends. / You abide in his empire. / In the kingdom of the rising star / He rose from a small bowl of hot bat soup…

Poetry: The house dreams of white doves on its roof, / remembers a time of coal fires in hearths…

Poetry: Let a house plant with little leaves dehydrate…

Poetry: I always like to do what I cannot do…

Poetry: If you could slit the black, sucked-in skin, / you’d find her there, alone in a chasmic closet.

Poetry: A Boy Runs / out of his lungs like they are a coat held by a parent at a school gate…

Poetry: Promise explodes from her gossamer wings as she crosses the threshold…

Poetry: I turned my father into a hotel…

Poetry: birds haunt the train tracks / and the doors beyond doors

Poetry: Feathers dropped by angel wings / light and soft as in your dreams

Poetry: Is there such a thing as a native bird? /
Those original fair weather friends of / Early morning song, emigrants of winter…

Poetry: The house is quiet. / I admire my sharp nails. / I have been invoking wolves.

Poetry:
hello, my name is cupid and i eat
the heartache — out of people for a living

Poetry: Lately I’ve let my hands go weak, I’m not responding / to emails

Poetry: i text you about all my meals so you know what’s inside of me when it’s not you.

Poetry: when we talk about / ourselves post breakup / why do we preserve / our
exceptionalism?

Poetry: … She’d play Scott Joplin’s waltz, ‘Bethena’, its title like her name, so I thought the song was hers …

Poetry: i text you about all my meals so you know what’s inside of me when it’s not you.

Poetry: “Boiled eggs taste better at sea,” she claimed. We dedicated our morning to untangling rods and replacing hooks.

Poetry by Annie Carter