2 poems by Robin McNamara : New York city ain’t you just so & Holy Fires of Religion

New York City Ain’t you Just So

Some bastard politician’s account
Died on Twitter / dystopian life is here.
Crowd-provoking sensationalist gossip
On the holy grail of social media.
In the big city where lonely women
With wanton lust orgasam to
The capitalist designer gear.
They label your life and bring greed
To the table.
Synthetic families gathering/unraveling.
What the fuck was a nuclear family. You’re stuck with me. I’m stuck with you.
Sociological reasoning has gone underground.


Downtown streets with one dollar stores,
liquor stores and bums on every corner.
Kosha Dillz a Jewish rapper in a red suit,
Downtown Manhattan— rapping,
The cops are nodding, the dollars are dropping.
New York ain’t you just so.

Whoosh! of the underground train throws
Hot city air across my face /
Baby face doll gives me a wink across the Platform.
Maybe we’ll meet later on tinder.
Hot holy hell the devils kitchen
On a summer Fire.

Wailing sirens and screaming poets
Unknown artists dying in rat-infested Apartments with blackened fingers bleeding From scratching out a living.
Cosmopolitan studios two doors down
Selling a fucking banana taped to the wall for
Six figure sums.


Smiles behind masks the streets are hiding a Danger you cannot see, covid comes to Broadway. A new musical playing at a person Near you.
Ride the subway through the tunnel / smokers Cough eyes to the right gotta get off the next Stop walk the miles taking no chances.

Gucci mannequins are all dressed up nowhere To go. Cops are loitering waiting for a crime in Times Square, it’s a bust.
Jazz nights at the Blue Note & cocktails at
The Dead Rabbit a fantastic light waiting
To be switched on again.
Allen Ginsberg’s ghost is howling again
We’re all in Rockland.


Holy Fires of Religion

And when you go and pray 
for compassion with the gossipers 
within the holy walls of God 
with all the other Harlem folks,
clapping and dancing in Jesus's name;

the hollowed out eyes of the Lord
looks down upon you all.
In wooden silence, hands out as if saying:

“have I come to save this?
Did my father forsake me for this?”

Father / preacher / reverend / holy man,
Reading from a book of legend  —
where are the poems within your hearts? 

Where are your words against 
the fire and brimstone —
that smelt the gold for your crosses.
Where are the poets within your scriptures?

Wolfpack Contributor: Robin McNamara

Published poetry by Robin McNamara from “Under A Mind’s Staircase”

Blurb for “Before the Bridges Fell” upcoming book by me (David L O’Nan) on Cajun Mutt Press from Robin McNamara

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Robin McNamara

Poems by Robin McNamara : “Here in the Woods” & “Sandpaper of Shame”

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1


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