The Balls Of James Dean by John D Robinson



Somewhere, sometime ago
I can remember reading or
maybe hearing or dreaming
of an account of when director
Elia Kazan introduced
the bright young comet
to the cast and crew of
East Of Eden
and how he’d walked up
to each and every one of
them in turn; fellow actors/
actresses, lighting, sound,
scenery, camera operatives,
producers, script writers,
catering crew, costume; etc;
and pushing his beautiful
face close to theirs, with
a fixed stare, spat out
‘Fuck You!’
and then moved on to
the next asshole
‘Fuck You!’
then the next asshole
‘Fuck You!’
now, there are times,
when I wish I had the
balls of James Dean
particularly on a Monday
morning, fresh back at
work and vent such an
expression to the many
soulless unimaginative
assholes I
but I’m no rebel
but rather, these days,
not even a Giant
of invisible inconsequence
and certainly I’m
East of nowhere.

C_UsersJohnPicturesJohn-D-RJohn D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; his poems have appeared widely in the small press and online literary journals including; Rusty Truck; Red Fez; Hobo Camp Review; Rats Ass Review; Down In The Dirt; Yellow Mama; Outsider Poetry; Chicago Record; Horror Sleaze and Trash; BoySlut; In Between Hangovers; He is a contributing poet to the 2016, 48th Street Press Broadside Series.

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