High Horse

Unknown Maker, Greek Headless Statue - Adaption of Aphrodite Frejus Type

Trying for twins 

Listening to the Crying Nudes— Unabomber and Unabomber II 
I planned it all standing on the stairs already pregnant amid a 
perturbed stream of morning commuters I cross against the 
varicolored light “love, peace and harmony— Oh, very nice, but 
maybe in the next world.” How many pissing and shitting dogs 
do I see walking or loaves of rising bread and pastry— 
everything in Nature seeks expansion of itself including all we 
have made so I will be survived by no wife, three sisters and 
two beautiful children


Hippies giving birth 

hang their offspring in midair by a cord cut— 
uproot the world tree and still it spins about 
the missing axis— vortex pulling all 
centripetal— where pollen? what fertile?
Houses going empty or full of grown sick
ghosts— they that lurch in slippers on false 
tile while surroundings creak & shrink—
centrifugal freedom by cruel efforts & decisive
 acts of leaving— rootless I can fly as I please
Praise the hippies for giving— I rain flowers 
onto their sweet selfish heads


The avant-garde is here take notice 

I cut off my own head for a picture undying fame 
of the bard and song— my thought survives me 
and my death— drive past a field 
“while the many glut themselves like cattle” 
you tap the window at them while we 
speed past in the Sun while I 

drink milk through my open neck 
doused burning my body is finally in 
control and free— fire was stolen 
from the gods and punished we 
cooked food and made the brain a ruling 
parasite that posed the most 
disturbing question— “Why?”



Casino 
                         
                          Why didn’t you come to see me? 
 
                          Who wants to see you in a cage? 

Surveillance 
                              footage of smiling 
              faces make 
way for commotion 
                          of snake 
eyes turning heads paid 
                          security— Broken 
                                                   hands— Empty pockets 

Degenerate, gambler! 

                          Why didn’t you come to see me? 
                          
                           Who wants to see you in a cage? 

Community a bitter fruit so feed me 
off a morsel of the open sky 

I give up 

My seat not for women 
Or the old but children 

                             Why didn’t you come to see me? 
                              
                              Who wants to see you in a cage? 

Through my house a crooked 
spine a spiral staircase climbs 
from red light in a basement 
to Sun light the attic window 
over and over again a pothos 
vine wrapped around it all 
slowly turning yellow-white 
               
                               Why didn’t you come to see me? 

                               Who wants to see you in a cage?


Nothing comes before us 

You are Nature pretending to be a bird under the Sun 
I am Nature pretending to be a cat under the Sun and 
we will collapse into each other’s arms later and
rest— how close it too close to get to a lion— 
this close? The world is all an open mouth before you— 
Jonathan said “it’s all meat before you” without what 
we need specifically for us— not everybody has the 
same taste or hungers for the same things

Sam Robinson is a writer from Massachusetts whose poetry has appeared before in Blue Arrangements, Spectra Poets, No More Prostitutes, Swamp, Reap Thrill and Apocalypse Confidential. I’m also the author of a chapbook, New Age Self Help (Bottlecap Press, 2024) and the singer and lyricist for the band Be Released. I can be found on instagram @baldsinatra and publishing some essays at sunworship.substack.com