Gary Robinson

Lady Pain

This the season of changing light. Long strokes riding down to the still amateur gardens not yet turned over. While my head turbaned with too much wine prefers a brace of shadows here in this place. Mysteries of the corners restless dust of winter books everywhere always so many books. Two cups of coffee and a search for a theme a woman who eludes me without her what have I ever done disturbing my heart with stupid conceits pinning medals on myself I’ve never won. Isolation of the spirit. Yes, going mad and nobody to share the joke with. Time of solitary laughter. Artificial light in my eyes here the black stabs and exits, scatters from this Japanese pen. Then a woman comes into mind brushes thoughts like wet stained earth leaves a scent of breasts and pain like bulbs in the head. She sheds roots in my skull beautiful sister of spring rising in the brain’s horizon like a white bloom of sun.


A grout of crows in her throat under a plague of sky, the road smeared like a black stump. Once she offered a mild wave a cool gesture or the charity of a coin. The pedigree of her white gloved hands performed before awkward bows. Abandoned outside the city gates she staggers on feet swollen like thorny branches and drags her pain to huts endures stares, the malice of thin hounds. Panic and cursing now when her palms open raw and black.

An Interpretation

Scarred by sleep my eyes limp into a bowl of cereal spooning milk and dream remnants shattered by a foot of thunder. we lack identity in this hour. Kitchen and a lake of light rush into an outline of yawns. Today the April beast seizes in its teeth the civilized debris, shakes brick and glass. We tumble in the dice of our bones. The world cracks and applauds. Distance surges, we toss worried smiles like drowning hands while each moves in a separate room, spins black in stillness as vast insect legs step spurred and white across a wound of sky. You look into the strangeness of my poems not recognizing the man in front of you. as everything collapses like a box only you and I are left eyes draining like wet birds.

Gary Robinson is a Canadian poet and short story writer & Novelist. He has been1422377_10151968122216668_1289903004_n published in several University journals & International Magazines.