The HyperTexts

Robin Helweg-Larsen

Robin Helweg-Larsen is a British-born, Bahamian-raised Canadian businessman who has lived in Chapel Hill, NC, for the past 23 years. His poetry has been published in Visions International, Ambit, Candelabrum, The Lyric, Shit Creek Review, The Rotary Dial, Snakeskin, Unsplendid, and elsewhere. He is also the author of a novel, The Gospel According to the Romansa non-believer's view, available from Amazon.

Auntie's Model Niece

Auntie got her
Maid to knit a
Set of under-

For my frozen
Sister Floís end
That was posing

Flo then wore Ďem
With decorum
And she swore Ďem

Undismayed by
Undies made by
Auntieís maid by

Camelot at Dusk

From under low clouds spreading from the south
The red sun drops slow to nightís waiting mouth.
Rush lamps are lit; the guards changed on the walls;
Supper will not be served in the Great Halls
With Arthur still away. Each in their room,
The members of the Court leave books or loom
To say their Vespers in the encroaching gloom.

Lancelot, up in his tower,
Sees the sunset storm clouds glower,
Feels his bloodís full tidal power,
            Knows he has to go.
In her bower, Gwenivere
Puts a ruby to her ear,
Brushes firelight through her hair,
            Feels her heartbeat grow.

Guard, guard, watch well:
            For the daylight thickens
            And the low cloud blackens
            And the hot heart quickens
To rebel.

From his tower, caring not
For consequences, Lancelot
Crosses courts of Camelot,
            Pitying his King.
In her bower, Gwenivere
Feels his presence coming near,
Waits for footfalls on the stair,
            Lets her will take wing.

Guard, guard, watch well:
            If attention slackens
            When the deep bond beckons,
            Evil knows Pendragonís
In its spell.

And as the storm clouds, rubbing out the stars,
Deafened the castle and carved lightning scars,
Drenched Arthur rode for flash-lit Camelot
Where he, by Queen and Knight, was all forgot.

Eva Aged 14

            Some of the girls I know
            Go to the University
            Sit so pretty
            Kiss-kiss and cissy
            With beautiful boys that they know
            Friends to drink tea with
            Chat with and be with
            Feather-headed into the feather-bedded night.

Oh no sweet Jesus hear me I scream
Such a life of show
Is beyond what I dream
Give me a man who Iíll never know
A man without feelings, without wrong or right
Without obligations
Except for the money
Let him be cold and hard as the money
And the money as dirty and evil as me
I canít trust feelings, I never trust feelings
And I donít care
That I canít care....
I donít dare.

            Some of the girls that Iíve seen
            Listen to that classy music, they sit
            And play piano while they drink their tea.
            Thatís somewhere Iíve never been.
            Cello!  Piano!!  What SHIT!

give me ROCK,  ROCK, give me ROCK oh give me ROCK
ROCK, give me ROCK, give me ROCK
blast my MIND  let me DROWN  give me SO much of ALL
that my HEAD and my BODy are FINally SOUND
give me ROCK,  ROCK, give me ROCK,  ROCK
give me ROCK rock ROCK rock ROCK,  ROCK
DROWN me  DROWN me, LET me go DOWN

            Some of the kids from my school
            Would sit down to a smoke, have a toke and cool down
            Drift round the town feeling cool
                        Not me

            Some of the students Iíve seen
            Trip out on acid, they want to expand
            They want to feel all that they can, and still more
                        Not me

Give me JUNK
Give me the rush and the bliss of fuck all
Give me the unsatisfaction of life
Give me the treadmill toward the next fix
The stealing or whoring, the need, the despair
Of being whipped up an unending stair
A problem of Now I can just about handle
The safety in knowing tomorrowís the same
And the whole problem thank god unthinkable
Only the treadmill toward the next fix
The fix of nothingness, of peaceful nothing
And let me not think
    LET me not THINK
Sweet JESus if i THINK even ONCE
                        iíll DIE.

The HyperTexts