Sunday, 12 November 2017

No Title

I smiled at her across the road from desolation

too young to love

too far away to write a poem

too pure to spill on

too distant to smell

I chew me up on a daily basis

my inner monologue torments

I read books to forget her

I bought records to forget her

I bought a scent to remember her

killing the unsaid

the filth beneath the tree

lost as lost said

I'm never quite noticed

brief encounters with the untouchable

I find my peace in films with subtitles

in writing for a muse

in coffee

in the streets of London

sad as sad said

I have danced with the damned and dreamt of nothing much

passing the cunts who stink of stunk

passing the bare footed violinist

she is beautiful and

she is lost in her music and I am lost in me

hearing her reignited a memory

like the sensation of touching new flesh

like leaving school

I idolized her for 3 minutes

writing words on my flesh in the hope they will seep in


Sunday, 13 August 2017


I only see through desolate windows

atrocity never far away

she was smoking but not looking

she was dripping but not wet

she was dreaming but not living

my role in life has been to torment myself with the not so erotic

she kills me back to life

she the hot day ice cream never achieved

I brought myself back from a suburban oblivion

on a bus with cunts

my pen stood still and my head was rotting

I play to the theatre of the unhealthy - caffeine my whore

I toyed with the idea of a coffee with you in Soho

like a poor cliche

we start our adult lives as wank junkies and end them that way

I only see across desolate streets

me...a mediocre artisan

my Ian Cutis dance moves moved nobody

clear the table for I need to burn insence to make myself appear interesting

culture theft is so fucking trite

during my days of death by melancholia I was half a catch

discussing burns on arms and medication intake

I waited so long in the doorway called life for you to arrive

my nuclear winter and Forever Autumn

my dreams haunted by those eyes and film posters

you slap me to a tickle


a stone's throw from utopia

I suffer dazzling lucidity

I almost found myself again

In a neon washed alleyway stinking of piss and regrets

she kills me back to life

but I only see through desolate windows

she was smoking but not looking

she was dripping but not wet

she was dreaming but not living

TR 2017

Friday, 16 September 2016


she is 18

so I am not allowed to look?

if I didn't look I wouldn't write

the female form is so much more to me than a sex object

sex and objection make for poor bed fellows

anal wankers judging  my morality

age restricting musing is for cunts


and she has bloomed like a flower

an impossible flower

art is her legs

art is her ass

art is her eyes

art is her chest

art ankles and art toes


and she is nobody's

she will break the boys

she will equal the men

she lies just over there where the grass stains her flesh

just over there

close enough to smell her sweet perfume

her promise

her potential

a life of surprises and heartbreak awaits those who touch her

just over there

a precious stone in a common park

a part time angel in a pretty dress


and I already love her

just a few lines in

my stains will never lift

she passed through my mind just

inside the sleep

the bit before dreams take over

and fuck you up

place food on her flesh and hope your heart can take it

look but don't touch

she is in the shop window of the impossible

and she is...


I only want her so I can muse her

sex for me was going down on her

on them

all of them

my climax never an issue

it was all about them

never about me

the taste of cunt

I am a passive man with an aggressive pen

a broken soul with only art to look at

glances thrown but not understood


and made by an artist

but penned by a lady junkie...


man can only find his truth when he finds the need not to spill

metaphorical orgasms come without the anticlimax

or the guilt


and I love her

but only for existing

in this dull world I so hate.

© Written by Tim Roberts September 2011 ©

Saturday, 23 January 2016

Flowers for Future Funerals

She wore black and she was beautiful – beautiful like a day full of sunshine but where a cloud was raining in my ever so fragile head.

I was happy to have passed her because my reality is a sandwich in plastic wrapping and staring in shop windows. Mirrors and reflections haunt me – they are everywhere.

I walk the West End for hours searching for my soul and that one line but I return home with only dirty finger nails from the tube train.

I pass the flower seller who cries for the flowers never sold.

Rosebud and redundant thorns discarded to the gutter with fag ends and the stud which dropped from the rude boys’ ear.

Revolution stirs and I'm calling time on clit tipping and salad hating.  There are more important things to worry about like a nation masturbating over orange looking women.

It’s been years since a fuck. Drip, drip, drip goes the tap – coiled like a spring and fit to burst.

I can’t tell the difference between sunrise and sunset any more.  But I do know that daytime TV is the graveyard of the damned.

I look for clues in soiled metaphors.

Love binds people with no road to live on. Sex wets people with no one to love on.

We need a meeting place for the lonely where the first kisses are recalled and mourned like a death in the family.

I hung my dreams out with the washing. Supermarket flowers were never you.

I found traces of lipstick on an old shirt collar – a souvenir of utopia past. Euphoria replaced by apathy. 

I now only fear the death of pages – my inability to write.  

But then I see her. 

She wore black.

A Southbank lovely who carries flowers for future funerals.  A fragile butterfly in a tormenting wind.

Mourn the loves which broke you. Get out before slap hits face.

Divine angel – you are my sweetshop, the origins of ice cream, the lollipop of my immorality.

I live in shadows painting her in words. I will capture her bliss on a sepia photograph.

Everyone likes a beautiful woman – very few will love one. Trophies become neglected on dusty pedestals.

TR 2016   

Thursday, 2 October 2014


my mind is so close to insanity
but closer to utopia.
same thing when you think about it.

I ask difficult questions of skewed mirrors.
skewed mirrors which present images of me
that were never quite right.

always fragile. always close to shattering.

marks on my arms forever there.
pictures of you forever imprinted on my mind.

I'm in a poetic slump where words are stolen
and where shit smells of flowers.

glazed eyes reflect suburban sunsets.
beautiful stories yet to be told.

butterfly kisses and wet underwear confirmation.
playground bully who became a bedroom princess.

salvage what you can -sleep- then wake up and
try again.

we have little but we have us.
park benches made for lovers.

strive to be the worst
because there's soul in failure.

urinate in a font...god is a cunt.

shed tears for the hair you will never stroke.
see her neck and cry a bucket load.
she's a hidden gem alongside
the afflicted ordinary.

crunch on a tasteless salad because the
government told you to, and if your
shit comes out green then blame it on the boogie.

washing the dishes is a metaphor used by dissatisfied couples.
the English rose has been replaced by the she man.

I know the road to all that is wrong.

class war in the bedroom. It never phased me.
her knickers were up and down like the Dow Jones.

instability has been my economy.

melancholia cooked in the oven of solitude.

my mind is so close to insanity
but closer to utopia.
same thing when you think about it.

T A Roberts © 2010 

Sunday, 6 January 2013

The Un-kissed Hours

I read books for company.

I read books to fill me.

finishing a book is a like a funeral

or the aftermath of great sex.

the un-kissed hours.

a void of the unspoken.

bliss at half price

where desolation reigns


where words are found.

there is nothing more intimate

than silence.

are we flirting

or just talking ?

flirting will be the death of love.

but I am bereft.

a worn out cynic.

solitude is a soul breaker.

solitude is a man maker.

just like vulnerable buttons on a blouse.

we all come undone too easily.

bravado just covers the blushes of

a socially inept fool.

a recluse.

never expecting much

but hoping

all the same.

at times I mourn all these years

not having someone to love

and to love me back.

life seems unfair.

some of us are just born not to be desired

or noticed.

condemned to writing about it.

but I can unearth a muse.

I bet you can't.

I expect you just drown in smiles.

sip the melancholia.

it may become you.

during the

un-kissed hours.

© 2013 © T. A. Roberts 

Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Primrose Hill

I am a peace envoy at war with himself.

I went to the school of love but was taught hate.

I like the Theatre but have a foul mouth.

I enter a library to achieve freedom but leave with my hands chained.

I get my kicks from pissing in canals and calling it art.

conversations on stairwells and a lost life.

love only happens to those who don’t fight it when the lights go out.

sepia moments tainted by black and white memories in colour.

avant garde plimsoll wearer and full time lolly licker.

coco chanel.....

memories will do for all of us..

cakes and cunt can taste the same but no summer was ever complete

without a picnic and finger nails sinking into a wet August Primrose Hill.

precious lips and dysfunctional eye lid... details I notice.

simmering glances from a hedonistic temptress.

I sit on the tube and regret my entire life.

ascending escalators and descending dreams.

twisted dreams and blusher stained pillows.

a love that died in clouds of cigarette smoke and my periodic madness.

some people touch your life but very few will consume it.

places I will never see.

flesh I will never touch.

songs I wrote that will never be sung.

roads never trodden and post cards never sent.

those post cards from impossible holidays.

those love letters of the lonely only ever read by the author.

comfort found in solitude.

© 2010 © T. A. Roberts

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Experiments In Sex And Grocery Shopping

she says she painted all night because art helps her remove the lust I placed in her fragile god fearing mind.

my lust left on a bus many years ago and hasn't been seen anywhere near me since.

I need a muse...find me a muse.

hand up thigh in public.. torture for lovers without privacy and no where else to go except public spaces.

I saw a Muslim girl relieve her man in a royal park and the irony of the moment
cracked a smile on my wasted face.

I visit London parks and spend hours sitting looking at tree's, occasional couples, and pieces of litter.

I talk to lamp posts and duck the flies that reject dog shit.

London is my canvas and I walk her to be tormented by her.. the flash of flesh on a decent pair of legs not only inspires but torments.

the measure is equal.

I see a whole life in lost afternoons in this melting pot.

carry my baggage for it is far too heavy for me.

I am not tall enough to see and not broad enough to be a man.

I enter a cafe/wine bar and ask for a table for two knowing that I will be the only one dining.

It is a strange kind of company knowing that you can order for two but remain alone.

I call it ‘the experiment of the never ending line of broken souls who suffer heartbreaking self pity’. 

was going to be a book but the title is a bit of a cunt. 

my next idea for a book is called...

experiments in sex and grocery shopping.

sex won't save me but food will.

I am finding the past tense in future scribbles.

I know it is going to be hard so I may as well start writing it now.

recently I have been starving myself and surviving on only water.

feeling this bad requires one to look bad.

I start a class war every time I leave my flat, every time another ‘broadsheet newspaper’ is pushed in my face.

I would shove it up his arse but where he comes from it would be considered as sex.

criminal bankers and half bald wankers...suburbia is the toilet you do your worst shit in.  

I got stuck in a thought process and not even the traffic in bayswater road could deflect me.

I want to be in this slumber forever.

depression becomes me.

I love the sound of lawns being cut...

something about it brings comfort to me.

I like 99 ice cream cones and the smell of nivea on sun burnt flesh.

cheap holidays and rock that rotted the teeth.

sucking on it just to get at the skewed badly written letters.

the smell of a penny arcade...

all cruel tricks played out during the innocence of childhood. 

she says she painted all night because art helps her remove the lust I placed in her fragile god fearing mind.

all I have left are bad thoughts and the perverted kicks of a tired word junkie.

2010 © T.A.Roberts  ©

Saturday, 3 November 2012


I purchased a book in a shop for cunts and unemployed cats.

It was written by the biographer of cafe life

and the author of love letters for coffee drinkers.

I read it whilst sitting in a greasy spoon just off chapel street market.

burns on arms and good wine on lips.

the lady who served me brings comfort.

she has a London accent and lives for nicotine.

she is perfectly imperfect like the rest of us.

lust has long been replaced by the crumbs of an unloved biscuit.

melancholia has messed with her libido.

she spends most nights dry.

give me a word and I will write you a poem...

give me a stone and I will break you a window...

I saw the end of love in her eyes.

she is my mother and sister.

she is the ballerina of my soap opera.

I threw my cigarette into a bin that cared.

forbidden fruit is overrated and it gets messy.

I still seek reason in the gutters.


the first girl I kissed tasted of spangles...

and this is all I know.

© T.A.Roberts 2012

Wednesday, 18 April 2012


I wrote a love letter in 1983

to my tragic wallflower and sister of the dark side.

I woke up next to you afraid.

a beauty in slow motion.

I was born just behind your eyes.

one day your picture will hang in a gallery for the lesser people to view.

I suffered the streets to reach you.

do you remember the bus stop? I think it was a Sunday.

chalk hearts were melted by rain.

they were just testaments of young love and


I was, and I still am , a melancholy mother-fucker.

I miss the park life of hand holding.

unclaimed jelly tots on a dusty mantelpiece.

I can say I kissed your lips in 1983.

old letters left stupidly in the bedside drawer.

a photograph left behind for the purposes of torture.

her eyes painted dark like the sky.

I met her at a Gary Numan gig.

my hand brushed against her chest outside a chip shop in

the fulham palace road.

and to say it changed my life would be an understatement.

hammersmith odeon was my kind of church.

watching her apply make up was my personal art gallery.

a dark angel with nice boobs.

happiness is easy, darkness was meant.

under the hammersmith flyover...

in another life.

I serenaded you with marshmallows and occasional plastic flowers.

tube platform salvation on rainy days.

catch a 37 bus out of peckham.

love is a stranger.

warped on a walkman.

the pavement cracks somehow reflected our lives.

the sun never quite shone.

our landscape was concrete.

I stole an eyeliner pencil and became me.

eyeliner made my eyes acceptable and warped vinyl records validated

my entire existence.

I got kicked around by skinheads...

who are now sucking off the state.

I was never ordinary.

who wants to be fucking ordinary ?

trodden on bubble gum.

dancing with damned.

rubik cube confusion and Our Price Records

am I in love?.....

love at first sight?....

phone me a cliche.

I want to go home

to coffee stains.

I started writing this on a fag packet, in a pub, and called it

a love letter.

a love letter to 1983.

she stuck it on her fridge

with an abbey road magnet.

it's more than I could have

hoped for.

one day I will write a line

that will crush you.

you with a

face like flowers.

texture like candles.

taste like spangles.

© Written and owned by © T.A.Roberts 2012

Monday, 5 March 2012

Dead Flower Pointlessness

I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,

all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo

and dead flower pointlessness.

it lingered and tortured my thought process.

the scent of a passing stranger on a tube station platform.

she smells somewhere between heaven and a better place.

traces of a past that I am not quite sure really happened.

a face crafted by an artist who cared.

she drenches angels with self doubt.

why don't I know you?..

maybe your hand slipped from mine whilst I wasn't looking.

I started writing to find you.

I wrote some lyrics.

It will be our song that will never be sung...

....tragic but poetic.

a vase full of dead roses that never loved me.

are you the last of the unblemished roses?

and is it nice being adored?

well, at least falling apart has soul.

each night I drip in insomnia.

In my cracked sleep I dream of you. It's a charitable psychosis.

there are kisses that will never find the lips for which they were intended.

the brutal emptiness of a one night stand, not desired.

I fell in love with you and hated the world for it.

but I don't know you...

and never will.

she dances through my life...but she doesn't know it.

she sang for me once and it broke me.

her pale flesh a canvas for a fucked up artist.

painted finger nails waiting to scratch the life from this life.

perfection is over rated

like tea with sugar and nicotine.

I would drink from you if you allowed me.

I would worship at the church of your dirty laundry.


never shout.

love is loud enough as it is.

the scent of a passing stranger.

misguided lust from an innocent pen.

I write with limited expressions and long forgotten honesty,

all shaken in a cocktail of innuendo

and dead flower pointlessness.

© Owned by Boris Danski Written by Tim Roberts March 2012 ©

Sunday, 14 August 2011


they found her singing songs on pavements stained by

discarded bubble gum.

caustic lyrics that hit their target.

dirty words will clean us.

in life and death the sick hunt the hunted.

narrow eyes see nothing....

limited people with nothing in their lives

but fucking objects.

you were the staples that bound our book.....

loud music from open windows on a barmy

London summer evening.

desperately sought after kisses.

rain on windows...never ending.

melancholy pen across depressed paper.

summer washed in

the gutter.

some friends in a car

that ended up hitting a wall

in suburbia.

they all died.

the wheels were

still spinning,

upside down,

and ‘God Only Knows’

was playing

on repeat.

the irony

did wet my appetite to

write dark soul

poetry again.

cunt me

cunt you

cunt everybody.

the clocks tick

but the hands

never move.

I am not in love anymore

well I never have been.

marlboro lights and coffee act

as a diet that soothes me.

I call it the limited means

of a supermarket junkie

I am tired and approaching


the romance of

the streets

moves me no more.

the bare foot waif like women

don’t tempt me to spill.

fetish all


litter blows.

litter cries.

one day

I will find out

what it is

I am trying to say

and will write

a poem

about it.

and you will hate me

even more.

and I will love that.

© Owned by T A Roberts © Boris Danski August 2011

Saturday, 26 February 2011


devastating like eyes, like a painting, like 9/11,

like melted chocolate spread over female flesh

like the page you always wanted to turn in

my book of brilliant things;

let us reserve that seedy hotel room and make it stink.   
coke on your clit became a source of addiction

but it was far more educational than day time TV.  
words spill from me like pre cum on an unknowing tongue.

drugs and addictions.

I am dirty, that is why you come to me.

purchase my filth and watch it grow on your mantelpiece.
I will write a fully deluded, self elected, semi masterpiece via

your cunt.

I want that smell of sex just under my nose.

If you could bottle that scent the men of Paris

would make the creator

a millionaire over night.

melt like chocolate.
my mind is working overtime at the moment and

it's fragile like eggshell,

like playgrounds full of boys,

like sandcastles,

like space invaders

and parties full of good looking people.

fragile like the child on the priests knee;

take the hand of an adult,

motherfucking God lover,

and try to abuse me you bastard.
I put up with your strange little’ fuck me’ noises and

shit perfume

oral sex passed your father by in exchange for a night at the Opera

a lady wears Chanel and a man has a dick.

how do you explain me to your comfortable parents

who live in their comfortable house

in comfortable avenue

over comfortable dinner and easy smiles in middle class suburbia?

‘he stubs cigarettes out on his flesh so as to relieve the pain;

a pain so much deeper

than burning flesh’.
self harm has me, and dysmorphic eyes guide me through stinking alley ways

and Art galleries of silence and chin scratching wankers;

excuse me mate, but that is a picture of a hamburger in black and white;

if that is art then I give up.
I am a falling man so soothe me.
I found seat in the Kilburn Tricycle and was taken for a couple of hours;

cinema can be quite a life saver;

a French accent can inspire the same feelings as when

the perv teacher stuck his hand on my private place during extra maths

(terrified excitement).

the ladies who gather in the bar after are the kind who smoke with the aid of

an extended holder and the men cross their legs in a knowing fashion

and speak of the sub text.
blow through me and torment me with that look;

unattainable you who makes me want to write;

impossible you, with a face made of china dolls;

slide into me and don’t leave;

I need the pain to exist,

to write,

to lust,

to wank,

to cum.

that 30min chat I had with you, in the pub,

made me feel like someone

and I want to feel that feeling

more than occasionally
I am dark

but not like nights

but like nights that are light.

I am dark like chocolate,

like Christmas Eve,

like ghost trains at funfairs,

like the bottom of the bottle I just finished

like all the men who look like men.    
fucked up kisses and blush worthy bullshit is what I bring to the table

and oh how they judge me once they see my scars.

chip away to my insides and you will not find diamonds

but you will discover colours

you never knew existed;
mirrors are like pain,

like torture,

like hell,

like a stab from a knife,

like you

like everyone I pass.

devastating like eyes,

like a painting,

like 9/11,

like the page you always wanted to turn in

my book of brilliant things.

I am a falling man so soothe me.
© Boris Danski  (Written and owned by © T A Roberts 2010)

Thursday, 10 February 2011

Photographs Will Find Her...

a bright young thing with the look of an artist

an indie rock queen folded with the elegance

of a homely daughter

the verve of youth touched with the sexiness

of womanhood

colour in the black and white

something in that face ticks my tock

but I am just an old man

who muses the untouchable

the out of reach

my kicks are obtained from knowing

the likes of her exist amongst the

dull and grey

dancing with the rain and gutter trash

to pale them into insignificance

photographs will find her


beauty is limited

her face has so much more

stories hidden behind mascara eyes

parting lips that whisper but only I can hear

her face

a face made to drench

angels in self doubt

I sat on a cold bench soaking in the rain

suffering the effects of too much drink

when I started to write this in my head

tiny pulses are felt if you 

seek them out

some lucky bastard watches her apply make up

first thing in the morning

brush strokes of an artist

she is the river I ran dry

the beautiful but tainted youth

tainted by the media and mr and mrs righteous cunt who read

the daily mail.

men froth at the thought of her on the tube

every morning

but consider suicide when they realize they never

ever possessed

the cool milk shake look

of the camden eyeliner princess

there is a place to sit and imagine what this beautiful ugly town can do for you

failing that just get lost in love making

photographs will find her

she glides through the market

all dark glasses, glam rock chic, and mosh pit stalker

I can imagine her dancing in the

electric ballroom

in the 1980's

feel the lust in an unspoken moment

find solace in public Libraries and coffee stained cafe's 

bright young thing

with the look of an artist

photographs must find her

and I hope they will

Written and © owned  by T Andrew Roberts 2010 © Boris Danski