Simon Robson – 1 poem


                       I’ve learnt to be patient –

                       my paltry, empty existence,

                       a few ex-prostitutes,

                        attempts at debauchery,

                       an animal eating luscious flowers –

                       happy with salted peanuts, bread crumbs,

                       the occasional kipper for breakfast, blue cheese –

                        drawing my curtains when the mood suits,

looking out at clear blue skies,

                       the fading, dismal light,

                       ghosts in the trees opposite, terrible,

                       a wispy cloud over Redan Hill, the cemetery,

                       a BMW convertible, alloy wheels for a fast getaway.

                       Sitting here on Easy Street,

                        gossiping with my neighbours over the back fence,

                       Helen, the lady with the limp,

                        Wurzle, who Hoovers my stairs and landing,

                        waking me up early on a Monday morning,

                       and Kev, a retired bus driver with pointy ears,

                       a teenage boy who sleeps over, skeletal.

                       An alcoholic woman a couple of doors down

                       with dementia who can’t remember if she’s coming

                       or going, choking on her puke, a constant blue siren,

ambulance parked

                        outside her window –

                       my haircut, a fried potato,

                       more indigestible onion rings

that are best alone, my memories,

how I arrived here –

some beavers, hustling chicks with army husbands,

a girl called Susan from Alabama,

how she got here, I don’t know,

doing jig-saw puzzles, reading the Fall of Rome

by Gibbons –

Easy Street, police patrols, up and down my street,

a riot going on, Cheshire cats.

Five quid in the Funky,

money talks, bums, drunken bums –

the content of my possessions I could fit into

the back of a taxi.


Simon Robson


Simon Robson – 1 poem



Your blue surgical face mask from China is in the post…
I hope it doesn’t get misdirected
like your last false nose and mouth,
a digital camera, photos of your heavy, congested lungs,
fish paste bacteria on toast.

Your jars of sticky raspberry jam coughing fits
are in the post, calming fluid between your toes,
agitated, hysteria, in your blue surgical face mask…
or dipped into a half-full urinal, smelling of piss…

More reusable bubble wrap plastic,
your nerves in little bits, tatters,
washing your hands and face,
hand cream, green gel…

I’m sitting on the warm vibrations of the
parcel sorting machine, no mech allowances, dust,
hand trap warnings, here at JMC, Hounslow heath,
when an opened parcel containing
a blue surgical face mask from China…

Sneezing into your pagan lentil Madras soup,
more yoga, more hair,
pet hair remover for your nostrils and dust,
and the blue surgical face mask you ordered on-line,
48 Tracked – beware of handshakes,
playing doctors and nurses,
back slaps – the neck of an ironing board,
ear lobes more comfy than a sofa from DFS…

Please if you need further instructions,
isolate yourself with a bottle of whiskey,
Downstream Access, next day delivery, mixed parcels…
your blue surgical face mask is in the post.






Simon Robson


Simon Robson – 1 poem



Stooped over with a crooked bad back –
how many years building red sleeves at Jubilee Mail Centre
an hour early before your shift, no more terrorist outfits, Father Christmas,
a snowman, a ship’s captain, Woking, 2C Horizon, a crooked back,
saluting you, fellow workers,
a gallery of photos to treasure in your eventual retirement, Vaz –
how much time spent, bad smells up your nostrils, hooked nose, discarded anchovy and Marmite pizzas, pigeon shit, Post Office dust up your flat Sri Lankan Hoover
for a nose, clogging your arteries, sixty-eight years old, maybe you should stay on until you’re seventy.


A working life at JMC, collapsing cardboard boxes, work until you’re seventy,
Jubilee Royal Mail Direct to London Central, he’s retiring now,
prawn tikka massala for breakfast, pineapple jam, action women to distract him,
unwanted attention from the mental midget managers here at JMC,
playing chess with Jim in the canteen, your Sicilian defence strategy,
full of abuse and scorn for his limited efforts, unappreciated –
we appreciated you Vaz,
dressing up, pirates, ship’s captains, gold braids and cuff-links.


A terrorist outfit once, cardboard rifle, gun –
maybe you should have should have been Superman, running on kryptonite
just to confuse the managers, none of them able to raise a hard-on,
ten packets of Viagra, out of sight –
here’s to you on your eventual retirement,
raising a flag-pole in your pocket, a salute.



Simon Robson

Simon Robson – 1 poem




There’s nothing better
than sitting at a glass table,
a vase of fresh flowers,
chrysanths, pansies, I suppose…
banging out a derisory poem about
my landlady who can’t put down her phone,
scrolling with her thumb –
she’s raised my rent for Botox treatment,
Facebook friends, watching Netflix,
French, romantic, merci, pouring wine…
Elizabeth Taylor,
I’m getting drunk after work,
red Johnny Walker, nothing better, merci…

Excuse me…
I’ve dropped the Tandoori peanuts –
Pharaoh Sanders on the stereo,
hateful grudge matches at work I’d rather
not go into,
popularity contests I’m never likely to win,
a lazy, bored, belligerent worker,
I’ve seen them handing round charity buckets
of self-pity…

While my landlady is electric, sexy,
curled on a new sofa of roses –
she’s missing her young Romanian boyfriend
who’s homeless,
I passed him in the subway back, poor boy…
a Romanian ex-car washer who drinks Red Bull,
bad cramps in her stomach, she says –
he plays the wild gold casino,
her stomach is sore with slot machines –
he follows her around like a shadow
because he’s got nothing better to do –
nothing better.





Simon Robson

News Promotional

Bindweed Issue 8 is now available in print

Despite personal setbacks in 2018, Joseph Robert and I have managed to get Bindweed Magazine Issue 8 into print almost a year after the online publication schedule finished in April last year.


It’s finally here. Hurray!
The past year has been a whirlwind of going back to the dayjob after maternity leave, coping with a sick baby, moving house (again!) and a family bereavement on top of all that. The setbacks delayed our publication schedule, but true to the nature of the convolvulus weed itself, Bindweed Magazine has managed to bounce back from the brink…essentially I have kept our little zine going through tough times. So thanks for bearing with me and here we go:


Print copy via Lulu Publishing


There’s a 20% discount with the code TWENTY19 (case sensitive) before February 7th, I believe.


Hope you enjoy it!


Leilanie Stewart 🍃