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Best Poems Written by Robin Regan

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Branded

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Branded
The numbers are tattooed on the inside of our eyelids at birth, ensuring that we grow up believing that living with our eye closed is normal. We move through life spitting it out like an ATM receipt to anyone that asks. The very name is deception "Social Security Number." There is nothing secure about it. It's a password, a confirmation of identity, and/or a weakness exploited by anyone trying to steal our identity. We wear it like make up to cover up the blemishes of our humanity. Right now, it's a little card we must guard with our lives. The next logical step is a microchip under the thick skin at the nape of the neck like a lost pit bull brought to the SPCA and thrown on death row. It seems that we are all lost, but there are some that know exactly where we are going. Their tattoo isn't on their eyelids, but their forearm. They are fuzzy now. The ink is diluted by the solvent of time, yet the memory is still as sharp as the needle was that day. Time has fast forwarded, yet the atmosphere somehow feels the same. Memories come back as the nightmare of the current reality settle on our chest like a drunk elephant sitting down after a long day. Human cattle. Segregation. Categorization. Appraisal go left go right resource exterminate that one. The smell of so much frightened humanity crammed into a sardine can and held over a fire fills their nose as if they never left that train depot. And, I suppose, part of them didn't. They were branded. A series of numbers that defined them as property and reminded them that they were no longer individuals, but members of a herd that could be called at any moment. They followed the Judas Goats, the sonderkommando, through the halls of the slaughterhouse. Not all made it out. Survival, even now, is feeling death every day, lick you behind the ear; it's hot breath beading the condensation of hatred that drips down your neck. Death by a thousand razor cuts shaving off one shred of dignity at a time. 
These people, these martyrs (for something great in them died that day on the train), see what is coming because they already lived through what's coming. They stare at our ignorance like parents knowing they have to let their children make this mistake and so they swallow the heart break. The streets are stained with innocent blood and goosestepping white nationalist rhetoric. Their hearts are stones because they survived hell...only to wake up today to a world in which nothing has changed. Or maybe it has. It's worse because this time, the coalition of evil knows what mistakes not to make and how to get away with it. The devil learns from history. The word "nationalist" has taken on an even more patently aggressive coat of arms. The Deaths Head isn't dead. The impending storm ahead should make all of our forearms itch. 
There will be...there IS...segregation, oppression and death. History has tried to warn us, but she's handcuffed in the basement with an American Flag gag shoved in her mouth. The events unfolding in front of our eyes; the murder, the corruption, the children in cages...these are our brands, our tattoos on our souls, hash marks to keep track of our sins. The President of the United States of America is the white nationalist son of a black hearted German Nazi immigrant that openly admits to grabbing women "by the pussy" without their consent. It's not a joke. This is reality. He believes that America is a big open  for his tiny hands to paw at. An entitlement, a breast for him to suckle that reminds him of his mother. He collects us like old coins and tries to squeeze every last scent out of us with his fat baby fingers. We are livestock for vampires that don't even try to hide their fangs. These pin-stripped suit criminals hide behind the American Flag pin on their lapels and are more ruthless than Adolf, Herman, Reinhardt, Heinrich, or Eichman because they don't even try to disguise their hatred. It's not that we need to be better students of history, because everybody knows what happened in Germany. Everyone can draw the parallel. It's just that most people, for the most part, don't care. In America, if life gives you lemons, you arm the lemons and train them to hate what is different. It's the American way. So, we need to be a better nation. How do we pull the human race out of the garbage? It's the difference between feeling sympathy and feeling incensed. One is about you and one is about justice. We need to operate from a place of quietly cold rage. The kind of rage that organizes our thoughts into full metal jackets that turns our brains into sharp knives; the efficient lethality of a well organized and angry tool. 
The enemy is looking ahead while we are looking up. We need to stop sleeping and start screaming. We don't need a hero. Hitler was a hate-filled murdering bastard. Trump is a hate-filled murdering bastard. But neither achieved success alone. We can use our shoulders as a step ladder or a battering ram.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018



Details | Robin Regan Poem

Painting in Vertigo

Somedays, I wake up and my mind is a buzz with the low hum of drunk bees. Other days it's the homicidal scree of the Purge siren meets the absurdity of Happy Gilmore. Those days, the mood stabilizers taste like tic tacs dipped in acid and it spills out of my gaping mouth into my previously placid pen, turning it to poison. My notebook becomes a study in disease, pock marked and creased with roller coaster highs and lows and the frizzing mania inbetween unfolds like an old moth eaten static charged blanket covering the gouged pages with foul temper, brutal honesty, utter despair, and doomed flights of fancy. 
It's a curse, like a lesbian lost to menstruation...shes paying rent in a house she doesn't live in, the lonely walls sing or scream it all depends on the dopamine. Sometimes, I want to draw these breath stealing fiends, but their shape eludes me, they slide over my fingers like the rainbow slick of an oil spill, tangible but unable to be captured, just enough residue sticks to my fingers, daring me to try and paint the face of it on the sidewalk. 
Somedays, theres jet fuel in my veins and my hands are brushes and my skin in an untreated canvas; the cool pigment dries and hardens inti crackling waves of war paint. My yawp shakes the trees and the birds and the needs, yes THE bees startle skyward into patterns flung by the breeze, stippling the sky in polka dotted relief. These days burn like untreated leprosy. Because, as bits fall away, I know the meat underneath is really me. I come crashing down to earth face first, eating my teeth so that the gaps in my smile are the map of a picasso and so my veins spew blue and my face twists upon itself like it was trapped in one hell of a vacuum, but you can still taste the salt of my tears and hear the howling of the out of tune guitar weeping in my uneducated fingers. 
The area between the twp poles is the buzzing radio wormhole radiating lazy circles impaled by tight frantic circles, intersected by crazy 8s and venn diagramed with healthy doses of rage, creating a vomit inducing masterpiece of optical illusion bubbles swelling and flowing in wiggling vertigo. Illness is art. Art transforms illness. It's not always beautiful. Sometimes beauty is in the intersection of fascination and revulsion.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018

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American Woman, Don't Cry

Don't cry, American woman  even though your eyes are swollen.
Don't cry because it's raining. Cry because you're too afraid to play in it. You're too old, too rich, too poor. Don't cry because the water is cold. Change your definition of warm. 
Don't cry because it's dark. Cry because you can only see in the light. 
Don't cry because so many died. Cry for why they died. Cry because we could have saved them. Cry because each trigger pulled is part of a bigger move to subjugate us to genuflect to fear and to die as pawns in a game played by the 1% and paid for by the 99.
Don't cry because there is inequality. Cry because fighting it is excruciating but you do it anyway. Fight on warrior. 
Don't cry because he abused you. Cry because he will get away with it. 
Don't cry because you're mebtally ill. Cry because they treat you like you're sick.
Don't cry because they traced a frigid crucifix across your third eye and your lips. Cry because you accepted it and refused to speak up or think for yourself. 
America woman, Don't cry because the world is on fire...but you might want to hide the match.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018

Details | Robin Regan Poem

Screwed Up Little House

I was born to be the dark horse...the underdog. 
But, I'm nowhere near endearing enough for people to root for me. 
Some look at me pitifully like I'm a blind puppy, others see me as a disease, and still others try to trip me to see my face covered in mud. 
Judas and I share the same blood, and the same unfortunate taste in friends, those with a messiah complex. 
The kind that abuse loyalty as an asset, an entitlement, a death sentence. 
Inside my chest, at the heart of it all, is a screwed up little house and in that house my heart hangs like an old chandelier swaying and tinkling in the anemic light of old dusty curtains. 

My love is a pair of tennis shoes thrown over a power line, their shadows forms a heart on the dirty asphalt, in front of the house with all of the ghosts, 
with the dead yard and the corpses of ill-fated kick balls and soccer balls impaled on over grown rose bushes. 
My body is that tired house. 
Sagging windows, crooked doors, the beams shudder like the people that cross the street to avoid me.
All the crucifixes hang sideways above the doorways, nails piercing the drywall like a tetanus filled stigmata. 

Locked in, I watch from behind a filthy window, I'm nothing but a shadow, a wraith, no evil, just waiting.
I'm a story to make children behave at the grocery store. 
I'm the face of decay, forgotten and wishing for a second change, bold enough to hope for a FAIR chance, 
misunderstood because I wear my ghosts like wallpaper.
It's tempting to hide them, but the walls will still moan with their weight. 
History can be buried, but never erased, 
It can be changed by the winners, but the truth lives on the tongues of sinners. 
When we fear them, we pretend not to hear them.
Many seek peace at the expense of truth and history. 

We are the victims of fairytales.
The witches cottage
The queen with the poison apple
The hunstman with his axe..whose heart is in the box?
The all live within my walls, even darkness needs a home.
Because light needs are worthy adversary. 
For good to exist, it must stand on adversities vanquished shoulders. 
There is no dawn without first a howling moon. 
I am the moon. 
I am a screwed up little house.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018

Details | Robin Regan Poem

Eulogy

Eulogies are beautiful things in the way that many counterfeit things can be beautiful; in the way that deception so expertly executed can be so breathtakingly perfect; in the way that a fist sized cubic zirconia shines so brilliantly under artificial light to an uneducated eye. When it comes to death, people lie. We polish people. We inflate them to be great pillars of the community, concrete in their indelible mark on society because it is universally accepted that an ugly truth, with regard to both life and death, is more regrettable than a well intentioned lie. But I say don't paint over me. Let me be the sandpaper rag that no matter how hard I try, I cant make anything shine. Let my eulogy say:
*she hated celery, jazz and bandaids; didn't understand truffles, caviar and the Beatles; she abhorred people but loved "It's Raining Men," potatoes and dogs.
*she ate her words as easily as she ate her feelings
*she was at her worst most of the time, but she tried. She COULD be kind. She COULD be good, but she was not a kind person or a good person.
*she had a chip on her shoulder that would make Atlas start sweating and it frequently got heavy abd rubbed her raw. She coated the wound in a womb of sarcasm and anger to ease the pain.
*the inside of her head was like a white chapel brothel and her heart was the dark basement that was terrifying until you went in and turned on the light.
*she was a bipolar addict warrior chasing oblivion with a butterfly net with a hole in it.
*she wore everyone she ever loved around her neck.
*she loved deeply but never learned how to say it.
*she had religion but not faith. She was a rock thrown through a stained glass window, landing on her knees in front of Jesus whisperinf "im sorry" as she picked glass from her palms. 
*she was ill.....not sick.
*she wasnt pretty. She wasnt sweet. She thought most of the world was garbage, but she gave money to homless people and cried at spca commercials. That has to be enough. 

Don't paint over me. Let me go.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018



Details | Robin Regan Poem

Secret Raindrops

I'm tired. I'm so tired. Growing up, I loved that special kind of lovely loneliness when you sit in your car, it's raining and it dances on the roof and you smile like you've got a secret. 
Now, I live in a world where bombs fall instead of rain drops and I'm praying the windshield will hold. 
I long for the soft pings to rock me to sleep, but there aren't any soft things left anymore, the drops are bullet holes, armor piercing rounds blood thirsty hounds bound and determined to see as many veins as possible ripped open and their contents washed into the gutter with the cold dirty water because a murderer felt ignored, marginalized, unloved, afraid while the NRA is in the corner grabbing lady liberty by the pussy with the second ammendment shoved in her mouth. 

I'm tired. I'm so tired. I'm tired in my bones.
The world broke them open and sucked out the marrow.
I'm tired in my soul, it's slowly dissolving in an acid slurry of hypocrisy.
I turn on the tv and I see another piece of history come out of my time that paints us as violent, mindless drones cogs in a machine powered by hate and manufacturing lies. But they say art imitates life so I stay behind the white line. 

I'm tired. So tired. I'm tired of all of the fires scorching my homeland and torching houses and burning up lives like stacks of dried fire wood, while the powers that be continue to deny the legitimacy of global warming. 

I'm tired of living in a time when it's easier to by an assualt rifle than it is to find a psychiatrist. I'm tired of mental illness being treated as a sickness instead of the genetic curse that it is. 

I'm tired. I'm sad I grew up. I miss the rain. I miss the innocence. I miss the absolute silence broken by the soft patter of mother nature before she was thrown in the back of a government van choking on a carbon emission ball gag. 

I'm so tired. I want to lay down but I can't.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018

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Baby Shoes

The guitar pick necklace rested in the hollow of her mottled throat like a chandelier in an old house. A pair of fish net clad legs counted the seconds like a cellulite pocked metronome.
Taking a drag off of a half spent Pal Mall under the neon glow of a no smoking sign, she bobs there like a retired row boat tied to a disintegrating pier, well passed her prime but she still floats out of sheer spite. 
She stares at the deep lines in her palsied palm and quietly remembers what porcelain felt like underneath her fingertips. But now, all she has are tremors, a dirty pair of baby shoes and a dog eared photograph of her lifes greatest regret. 
Her breath started to come in short gasps as she ran to the bathroom. 

The sign reminded her to kindly not smoke and she gives it the finger on the way by. She pulls out her pipe. She's gonna fly. 
The meth chases away the deep green eyes and that smell..that special smell....she never cries when she's high. 
That's why her bra is full of condoms and foil packets...her barely there shorts don't have pockets. 
It dulls the shame of what she is about to do next. She can taste the salty flesh...and so she washed her mouth out with a bottle of Jack. 

The only time she says God's name is when she is straddling a stranger. She's caught astride the fugue state of a high ride. It's a transaction without expectation except for the occassional black eyes, split smile and bruised thighs; penance recorded in sores on her skin. 

She is pain. She eats it. Her teeth grind on the marrow and the poison in her blood then fall out when they've had enough. Until....even her smile..like her stockings...like her heart...is full of holes.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018

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Queue

Am I dead? I woke up in purgatory like the dmv waiting for my number to come up 
The numbness in my mind hurts almost as bad as the tingling in my a**. 
My legs tap out the morse code of the waiting and perpetually alone.
From somewhere in the back my minds eye slaps me and tells me to sit still but my inner child flys the finger at it because sitting still might actually kill me, I might actually explode or implode or some other "plode" word that I know exists but I can't remember because my brain is sending back my inquiries return to sender.
They balance on my tongue like the breath of last nights bender,
I'm rendered speechless by the open chasm of mundane boredom, inane insane monotony openinf it's vast yawning maw to swallow me.
My hearbeat is like Chinese water torture drip drip thrump thump.

Everything is grey everything taste like beige dust, the murmuring around me is at once deafening and inarticulate.
I wait in queues because thats what I'm conditioned to do; pavlovs dog drooling over each number that brings me closer to what has now become my identity in black ink on a tiny white square. 
The closer I get to the holy numeric grail, the more I feel alive, the more anticipation in my skin the shuddering tingle in my bladder....and then...ding...my number...my alias...my mask...my let down.
I stand up like I'm programmed when the number on the screen matches the ticket in my sweaty hand, and open the door to a new queue.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018

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Spray Tanned Jack Ass

It's hard to believe in redemption when all you see os hate and corruption on TV. 
Humanity has become numb. Humanity has become an orange spray tanned jack ass waxy discharge with baby hands and verbal diahrea dribbling down his receding double chins and onto his motherland red tie.
All of the 7 seadly sins sit marinating in his swollen abdomen like bacon gone rancid bubbling in its own fat; and then flying out of his mouth like indigestion and out the other end as vitriolic excrement that fertilizes the right to believe that they have the constitutional freedom to sucker punch the nation and blacken her eye. 
America is a battered wife tied to this writhing feckless maggot in a shot gun wedding, mumbling her vows around the gun in her mouth. That was the beggining of the hungry days.
Now shes all rib bones swimming in the filth of betrayal; skin stretched thin lile a human lampshade. Shes the limping horse of famine. A beat dog paralyzed by a master that still has her loyalty despite him breaking her spine and making her legs drag behind. 

He's ed the whole world and didn't even have the decency to leave money on the dresser. He threw up out with the sour garbage like old pennies forgotten in a couch. 
He's all cartridge, he bends in unnatural ways and always seems to escape. 
He can step in a land mine and step out of it like dried dog  using verbal gymnastics and scare tactics. 

This man is an insult to men..and abuser of women...a bully to children...and a disgrace to humans...and yet....this man is president.

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018

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The Edge of February

Kiss me. 
Kiss my lips on in the no man's land between warring trenches. 
Roll me in rhe barbed wire killing fields among the mud and the mines. 
Hold me until the smoke clears. 
Kiss my eyes while we are enclosed the bones of an abandoned church.
Nuzzle my neck among the whispering dead; the tombs and headstones of those who fell before we did.
Hold me until the fog clears.
Grip the swell of my hips in a fox hole full of shrapnel.
Shout my name into a sky full of searchlights.
Write your vows in the breaths between bullets.
Tell me you'll love me forever on a desserted beach full of crushed sea shells in the middle of February

Copyright © Robin Regan | Year Posted 2018